Heavy the Night
by Nine Bright Shiners
Summary: Elrond Half-elven lingers on in Middle-earth after the departure of his wife for the Undying Lands. While on a diplomatic visit to Thranduil, he unexpectedly encounters someone he never thought to see again. Elrond/OC. Set some 300 years before the main events of The Hobbit.
1. The Enchanted River

_Disclaimer: Middle Earth and all its inhabitants belong to Tolkien_

_A/N: __I plan for this story to be around 15 chapters in length. I hope you enjoy this first chapter and those to come._

* * *

Chapter 1: The Enchanted River

'They say the river is enchanted. Any who fall into it succumb to a deep sleep. If they should wake, their memories will be lost to them forever.'

A long-forgotten old wives' tale came back to Astrid as she looked down into the black river. Only now was she able to believe it**.** Murky sunlight filtered through the canopy, scattering tiny flickers of light across the river's surface. Darkest brown and green glints winked at the heavy boughs overhead. Her brother Nat blanched as he gazed down into the river. It reeked of magic.

'Is there no other way across?' he asked.

The swaying, creaking bridge looked as though the slightest pressure would send it hurtling down into the water.

'Not unless we waste precious days. On the map it says this is the only crossing place for several leagues, and the paths are wandering.' She paused. 'I have heard the lesser paths even change their route.'

Nat swallowed, steeling himself.

Astrid put a gentle hand on his shoulder. 'You must go first. You are lighter.'

It was useless to argue. His face set, Nat cautiously stepped onto the bridge. It swayed alarmingly, but showed no sign of breaking. Both of them exhaled in relief.

'Go on, Nat. Not far to go now.'

Nat crossed the bridge as fast as he could while placing his feet with care. In half a minute he stood safely on the other side, gazing back at his sister in wound-up apprehension. Holding her breath, as though it might lessen her weight, she stepped forwards. The bridge creaked horrendously, hissed curses running through the ropes and beams towards her. Pushing aside such fancies, she forced herself to take another step, then another. Nat watched her eagerly, his mouth half-open, one hand stretched out as though ready to catch her.

She was halfway across when the boards disappeared beneath her and she dropped like a stone. Nat was screaming her name but she could not reply because her mouth was filling with water. She spat it out at once, dreading to swallow the enchantment. She cast about wildly, searching for a place where she could climb ashore, but the banks were high and slippery.

'Follow me downstream!' she managed to call, as she was dragged away by the current. 'There'll be a lower bank soon and you can help me up. Run ahead and tie the rope somewhere secure. Use the strongest knot our father taught you.'

She saw Nat nod ardently, before he broke into a run, overtaking her quickly.

'Not too far ahead!' she cried, before a sudden drop made her tumble forward and inhale water. She spat it out, gasping. After that she kept her mouth tightly closed and concentrated on keeping her head above water. She could feel it tugging at her very bones, leeching at her strength. At first it felt shockingly alien. But gradually it warmed her. She was struck by the beauty of the river. It was like bathing among stars, sending them rippling with a single kick.

She was startled out of her reverie by Nat's terrified voice.

'There's no rope! It's in your pack!'

It would be impossible for her to throw it to him. Terror gripped her and the spell of the water momentarily receded. She grabbed at a cluster of vines dangling down the river's edge, but they came away in her hands and she plunged beneath the surface. She burst up again, gasping, but her strength was almost gone. She had forgotten Nat; all she wanted to do was sink back among the stars and hear them singing of the Ages they had watched over. Far away, she heard the joyful blast of a hunting horn. She smiled; soon she would join her ancestors, hunting and feasting through the endless night. Then her head struck something hard and everything went black.

* * *

It was a fine, warm day, though the deep canopy barred much of the sun's light. The horses cantered proudly through the trees, manes rippling and nostrils flaring. The Elf-lords laughed in exultation as their steeds leapt across a narrow stream, soaring for the briefest of moments before thundering back to the ground.

Somewhere to their right the horn sounded; the hart had been sighted. Flashing a grin at Elrond, Thranduil suddenly wheeled his horse about and galloped off towards the sound. Elrond was about to follow, when he found his path blocked by a wall of trees. Cursing good-humouredly he plunged on up the path, waiting for a gap. Even as he kept a lookout to his right, he was careful to remain aware of his left, knowing that the Enchanted River flowed perilously close. At last he saw an opening. Bracing himself for the turn, he leaned forward in anticipation of the chase about to come.

His horse reared so suddenly he barely managed to stay astride her. A human child had burst onto the path, gasping for breath.

'My sister – she's drowning. Please – help us!'

It took Elrond only a moment to regain control of his mount and his faculties. 'Take me to her.'

The boy obeyed at once, vanishing into the trees. Seeing the trunks were too closely grown for riding, Elrond swiftly dismounted and raced after the boy. Moments later the trees vanished and they found themselves on the edge of the black river.

'There!' The boy pointed down into the water, where an unconscious woman was slumped against a massive tree root, too far below the edge of the bank to be simply hauled to safety. She was slipping, slowly but surely. In moments she would be swept away, beyond reach of help.

There was no time to think. He shed his cloak and breastplate before slipping into the river. At once he felt its merciless pull. Voices seemed to sing in his ears, inviting him to lay aside his cares and sleep in the tender arms of the river, to let it carry him far away, along a path dappled by the shadows of leaves and bright coins of sunlight.

He grit his teeth and forced himself to focus on reaching the woman. With a much keener affinity to nature and enchantment than Men, Elves were doubly vulnerable to the River – and if he did not reach her soon, neither of them had any chance of survival.

He swam forward with powerful strokes. Mercifully she was on the same side of the river as he, so he did not have to cross the roaring current. Just as he reached her she slipped into the river. Lunging forwards, he grabbed her by her pack, then got a firmer grip around her middle, careful not to be rough. Her pack was making it difficult to hold onto her; he fumbled with the straps, then tugged her towards him. In her comatose state she weighed like lead. Usually water would have made her buoyant, but this black water seemed to delight in weighting her like an anchor. Her pack slipped from her shoulders. He made a lunge for it but was too late; he hoped it contained nothing of value.

By now the song of the river was almost overwhelming. He slung the woman over his shoulder, making sure her head was above the water, before turning around and swimming back to the place he had slid in, where the ground was low and close to the level of the river. On his return he was now fighting against the current. The river leeched the strength from his bones. All he could do was focus on the bank, which drew closer at a tantalisingly slow rate. He thought vaguely that he heard someone call his name, but dismissed it at once. He could not afford to be distracted.

Suddenly hands were gripping his tunic, while at the same time the woman was snatched from him. He tried to grab her back, but he had no more strength than a young Halfling. He felt himself being lifted out of the river and laid out on the mossy bank.

'Lord Elrond!' insisted the voice, close to his ear. 'You must not sleep or you will begin to lose your mind. Revive yourself, my lord.'

'Here,' said another voice. 'Try this.'

A hand gripped his chin, tilting open his mouth and trickling in a few drops of a thick, sweet liquid. He tried to resist but to no avail. He swallowed resentfully. Moments later it felt as though a great fog were lifting from his mind; he blinked rapidly as a bright stroke of sunlight smote him through the tree cover.

'He's awake,' said the first voice with relief.

Elrond looked around him. It took a moment for him to recognise his companions Lindir, and Glorfindel. Then he realised his clothes were soaking wet.

'What happened?' he asked, before the answer came at once – 'Where is the woman?'

'She is safe, my lord. Your son is reviving her. If it had not been for you she would certainly have died.'

Elrond turned his head and saw the woman lying some distance away, deathly pale, still but for the minute rise and fall of her breast. The young boy knelt at her side while Elladan dripped _miruvor_ into her mouth. Elrond rose, with less grace than usual, waving away Lindir when he offered assistance. 'She will have lost much of her memory,' he said in the Elven tongue. 'She must have been in the river for some time.' The boy glanced up suddenly, though he could not have understood the words, and looked at Elrond pleadingly. Elrond turned his gaze on the woman once more.

Only then did he recognise her. A tumult of conflicting emotions skirmished in his throat. He did not attempt to tease them apart. Turning his back on her, he went to his horse.

'Help them both mount. We must return to Thranduil's Halls. There will be no hunt for us today.'


	2. The Healing of Vilya

_A/N: __The title for this chapter refers to Elrond's ring, named Vilya, one of the Rings of Power made for the Elves._

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Chapter 2: The Healing of Vilya

As they rode, the sun slowly dried Elrond's wet garments, yet he could not fully cast off the last echoes of the river's song. The other elves had recovered some of their earlier cheer, overcoming the disappointment of missing the hunt with the thought of the great feast that awaited them that evening. In two days' time, the Feast of Starlight would be upon them. Elrond's heart lifted at the thought. Then he remembered the woman and his mood grew sombre.

She was still lost in a deep sleep, despite the _miruvor _that had been given to her. When they had first set off she had been peaceful, but gradually her brow furrowed until she grew haunted and anxious. He had not looked back at her for some time, and did not now. He thought of all he knew about the river's enchantment, and how to combat its effect, while avoiding the detail of who it was he must heal.

Just ahead the sunlight suddenly intensified and they drew into the clearing spanning the cliff-edge that formed one side of the gorge marking the borders of the Greenwood King's Halls. He glanced back at the boy to see his reaction. The child's face was grave, but his eyes gazed at the delicate bridge and the intricately carved doors.

They dismounted and grooms came forward to take the horses to the stables. Then Elrond and the other elves crossed the bridge, the boy walking among them, the woman carried on a makeshift stretcher.

'Has the king returned?' Elrond asked one of the guards at the gates.

'No, my lord. He and his party are not expected for some time.'

Elrond smiled slightly at the guard's self-consciousness. 'No doubt you are wondering why my companions and I have returned so soon after setting out. In good time you will know, but for now, we have a woman with us who is gravely ill. Would you take us to a place where I can tend to her?'

At once the guard left his post and began to lead the way. Elrond took only the boy and the stretcher bearers with him. They made their way swiftly through the curving walkways of the Halls, passing beneath broad-spreading boughs and shimmering light. As they walked the boy drank in every detail, marvelling at the grace of Thranduil's domain. Elrond himself had only been to these halls once before, shortly after the end of the War of the Last Alliance, in which Oropher, Thranduil's father, had been killed. That time, an Age ago, the Mirkwood Elves had lived in palaces and halls throughout the forest, before the spiders had come and darkness had crept into the very veins of the forest's innumerable leaves. Glad though he was to visit these halls, Elrond thought of the end of his stay with little regret. In two weeks' time he would be returning to Rivendell. The heavy light of these caves swiftly grew oppressive after spending the greater part of an Age in the valley of Imladris, where bright water lay all around, under the open sky.

They had entered a new part of the caves, one given to residences. Their guide halted. 'This suite of rooms has long been empty; would they be suitable to your needs?'

'Of course.'

The woman was laid on a bed in an inner room, and the other elves departed, leaving Elrond with the boy.

'Will she recover?' asked the child. His solemn eyes were too old for him.

'Yes, though it may take some time. I will do my best to heal her.'

'With your ring?' Elrond was surprised that the boy had noticed it; the ring's nature was such that it was not easily seen.

'My ring has some power to heal, but it needs my hand to guide it.' The boy was quiet. 'Do you understand?

'Yes, lord.'

Elrond looked at him impassively; the boy reddened slightly and lowered his eyes. 'What is your name?'

'Nat, my lord.'

It was a name common to many dwellings of Men; but not a name of rank. There was a nobility about the boy's quiet gravity, however, that perturbed Elrond.

'You may stay if you wish, but the day will grow long. The river's enchantments are not easily lifted, and she was in its waters for some time.'

'I will stay.'

Elrond seated himself beside the bed and rested a hand lightly on the woman's brow. It was hot and damp beneath his palm; she had tossed about as they carried her through the halls, but now at his touch she began to calm. He closed his eyes and sent his mind to meet hers, seeking the source of her induced sleep and distress. He forgot his own apprehension as he lost himself in the work of healing.

Many hours had passed when he opened his eyes once more.

He saw the boy at once, sitting on the end of the bed, one hand resting absently on the woman's ankle. He had fallen asleep, his head bowing into his chest uncomfortably.

Elrond lifted the boy and carried him to a cushioned bench near the bed; that he might not wake alone.

Then he left.

* * *

'How is she?' Elrohir asked.

'Sleeping, as she will for some time yet. But I have hope that her mind is healing. There is nothing more I can do for her; she must mend her memories herself.'

Elrohir looked as though he were about to ask something, but fell silent. Then he said cautiously, 'Thranduil wishes to see you.'

Elrond frowned. 'Is something wrong?'

'Perhaps it is nothing, but there has been talk of an orc pack venturing into the forest.' He paused.

Elrond knew that pause meant nothing good. 'And what else?'

'There is a Man, alone. Dark of skin, wearing the garb of the Haradrim.'

Elrond turned away from his son, concealing his unease. It could not be coincidence that a Harad had been sighted on the same day that the woman and the boy had been found by the Enchanted River. 'Long has it been since last I saw any from Harad venture so far north.' It had not been so long, however, since he last saw Haradrim in their native land, but this he had never yet spoken of, and did not speak of now.

'Where is Thranduil?'

'In the throne room.'

'Then I shall not tarry any longer.'

As he passed swiftly through the halls, Elrond's thoughts dwelt on the matter of the Harad. He could not deny that the presence of the Southron in Mirkwood troubled him more than that of the orcs. But perhaps such trepidation was justified; orc packs were fairly common in Mirkwood, while Harad Men were not. And then there was the matter of the woman…

He felt a slight unease at what Thranduil would have to say about his uninvited mortal guests. The Mirkwood elves were not known for their hospitality; they largely kept themselves to themselves, rarely leaving the forest, and few strangers ever ventured near. Elrond was visiting Thranduil for diplomatic purposes, hoping to strengthen the ties between the elves of Imladris and those of Mirkwood. He had little optimism that anything concrete would result. There had long been mistrust between Thranduil's people and the Noldor, elves among whom Elrond had lived for many years, becoming captain and herald of their king, Gil-Galad. Thranduil's father, Oropher had once been so reluctant to fight under the command of the Noldor king, that he led his company forward into battle before Gil-Galad had given the signal. As a result, many Greenwood elves were slain in battle, Oropher himself among them.

The doors to the throne room opened, and Elrond went through, heading directly towards the throne, in which Thranduil reclined. His pale hair gleamed around his shoulders; a rich burgundy robe flowed to his feet, pooling on the dais. When he spoke, his voice rang softly through the hall, rich and melodious.

'I am told you returned from the hunt several hours ago – and in the company of a mortal woman and child. Why did you bring them here?'

'The woman had fallen into the Enchanted River while attempting to cross it. I thought it right to bring her here where I could heal her.'

Thranduil watched him, and Elrond feared his own voice had not been as neutral as he desired. Then the Mirkwood King sighed and turned slightly in his throne. 'It has been many decades since a mortal last set foot in these halls. How long do they intend to stay?'

'I have not asked. But I doubt it will be long.'

Thranduil regarded him. 'And what do you make of the news of the Harad?'

Elrond replied after a moment. 'We might do well to watch him for a time, and so learn his intentions. If he is merely passing through, I cannot see any use in detaining him. If he lingers, he should be approached – with caution. It is unlikely he is a trader; most trade with the Haradrim has been broken off since they fought with Gondor. Determining the man's motives for coming here may well prove prudent.'

'You counsel is wise, as always, Elrond Peredhil,' said the elf-king, a rare smile playing across his lips, though it did not quite touch his eyes. 'And now, let us talk of lighter things.'

* * *

That night, when the feast was over, Elrond found himself taking a route which led past the woman's rooms. Food had been brought to her and the child; the elf who had served them had reported that the woman was still asleep, though so calmly and quietly that there was little cause for alarm. The boy had refused to leave her, even when invited to join the night's festivities.

He had reached the outer door. He paused for a while and listened; only the soft sound of breathing reached his ears. Without warning he found himself remembering a pale face looking down at him through the bars of a grille, watchful and wary. He pushed the memory away at once, startled by its clarity. But as he silently returned to his rooms, the memory of her did not leave him. Soon she would wake; and it would be her turn to see him for the first time in fifteen years. He did not know whether the thought made him feel dread or anticipation.

* * *

_Haradrim, also known as Southrons, are a race of Men from Harad, a desert land south of Gondor._


	3. Acquaintance Renewed

Chapter 3: Acquaintance Renewed

Time lost all meaning for her as she drifted in and out of consciousness. Sometimes she thought she saw a bright shining light; mostly there was only darkness. Once she heard her brother calling her desperately, but when she tried to answer her mouth filled with water. Terrified, she flailed for air, but to no avail. Then a voice spoke to her, deep and resonant, yet soothing. Every word seemed to penetrate her mind, alien yet beautiful. Though she did not understand their exact meaning, the words told of peace and renewal. At last she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

She woke to a strange half-light filtering in from above. For a moment, she panicked, thinking she was still in the river; before the bed she was lying in convinced her otherwise. She lay still, slowing her breathing, and took in her surroundings. Her attention was caught by a chair in the corner of the room; the delicacy of its carved back made her heart sink. _Elves. _She did not know why the realisation should trouble her so: for years she had been captivated by the songs minstrels sang of past Ages, and the Elves who had lived and fought and loved in those distant times. But now when it seemed inevitable that she would meet the Firstborn in person, she found that she did not want to.

A door opened in the next room and she heard Nat speak. An unknown voice answered him. She strained to listen but they spoke too quietly to be overheard. No doubt Nat thought she was still asleep and was trying not to wake her. As she looked around the room again she noticed the clothes that had been laid out on the couch. With a start she realised that she was naked beneath the sheets. She felt suspiciously clean too; someone must have bathed her while she slept.

She decided to take the risk and get dressed, hoping she would not be disturbed. The fine gown was decidedly not her own; her clothes must be being washed. The material was of superior quality to anything she had ever worn; she felt she did not suit it. Pushing such misgivings aside, she dressed hastily, and was just struggling to fasten the ties at her back when Nat came in.

He smiled to see her awake again – before his eyes widened at her gown, despite his own elf-made tunic.

She could not help laughing. 'Do you still recognise me?'

'Only just. It might help the overall effect if you brushed your hair.'

'Oh it might, might it?' She pretended to smack his head.

He ducked, then picked up a comb from the dressing table and threw it to her. Catching it, she began to tidy her hair.

'You slept for nearly a whole day – though you might have slept longer if the elf-lord had not healed you. Do you remember what happened?' he asked.

'I remember trying to cross a black river – the Enchanted River. You got across safely but when I tried the bridge collapsed and I fell in. After that I can remember nothing.'

He hesitated before asking carefully, 'And you don't remember why we came to Mirkwood?'

The question unnerved her because she knew that she _should _know – all the more so because he clearly did not know himself. It must have been important if she would have kept it secret from him. 'No, I do not.'

He nodded, disappointed. 'Well, it must be the effect of the river. The elves told me its waters carry a spell of amnesia. They said the effect wears off after a while.'

'Tell me what happened after I fell in.'

'I ran to get help. I came across an elf-lord, tall and dark. He came at once when I told him what had happened. He managed to get you out, and then other elves arrived and they took us both here, to the halls of the elf-king of Mirkwood.'

'I thought that might be where we were.'

He frowned at her tone. 'Are you not glad to be here? I know how tales of elves have always fascinated you. Why would you not want to see them when at last you have the chance?'

She wondered what he would say if he knew that long ago, she had met one of the Firstborn. She rarely dwelt on her memories of him. Knowing she would never meet him again, she sought at least to keep him from her thoughts, even if she could never forget him.

Nat was watching her. She spoke quickly, deciding not to mention the elf or the apprehension that weighted her thoughts. 'There is no reason. It must be the river. I am curiously out of sorts this morning – it is morning now, isn't it?'

'Yes. An elf brought breakfast just now, if you would like some.'

They went into the next room together and found plates of bread and honey, with forest berries at the side, and a jug of fresh milk. All the while they were eating, Astrid felt a pressure growing in the back of her mind. She knew they had come to the forest for a purpose – something she had felt was urgent or she would not have risked crossing the decaying bridge. But try as she might she could not remember what it was. When Nat glanced at her in concern she forced herself to smile. She asked about the elf-lord who had rescued her but he could tell her little, only that he also had powers of healing. As she ate, she tried to think of a plan. They must leave soon – but first they would have to restock their provisions – especially since she had lost her pack to the river – and they would need to thank their hosts. But where would they go to when they left? If only she could remember why they had left Dale.

They were just finishing the meal when there was a knock at the door.

'Come in,' Astrid called, hesitant. She was not usually shy, but it was not every day one met an immortal.

The door opened and an elf-lord entered, smiling at Nat before turning to Astrid. 'Greetings, my lady. It gladdens me to see you have recovered. I am Lindir, counsellor to the Master of Imladris. If you are ready, I would take you to him. Lord Elrond wishes to speak with you.'

* * *

Yesterday afternoon, caught in the thrill of riding through close-set trees, Thranduil's spirits had been the most uplifted Elrond had yet seen. But that cheer had soon faded; even at last night's feast he had been distant. Now, as they edged around the topic of renewing contact with the Lothlórien elves, Thranduil's voice was almost cold. Elrond was almost reminded of the proud moodiness of Oropher. Despite having often been told that he was adept at diplomacy, Elrond found himself hesitating to speak, fearing to offend his host unintentionally with only the slightest verbal misstep.

Early that morning news had come that the Harad was walking north in order to find more secure passage across the river, having come to the broken bridge. The orc pack had now passed south of Thranduil's halls, but Elrond would not feel easy until they were out of the forest altogether. Of all dark creatures, he hated orcs the most, almost as much as his sons did. Always he feared that Elladan and Elrohir might disappear one night to hunt the orcs themselves, in vengeance for all the pain the foul creatures had caused their family. And then there was the ever-present danger of the so-called Necromancer, who had become a frequent topic at the meetings of the White Council.

Yet Thranduil remained seemingly impassive in the face of these troubles, and showed little inclination to renew acquaintance with the elves of Lothlórien, or Imladris.

Once he enquired briefly of his mortal guests. When Elrond said the woman still slept, Thranduil had only said, 'No matter,' before speaking of other things.

It was a relief to Elrond when their meeting at last ended, and he was able to leave, walking swiftly to the room he had told Lindir to bring the woman to. After a long hesitation, he had decided it would be best if they met privately, hoping to lessen her shock when she recognised him.

To his relief the room was empty. It was fairly small, and better lit than many in Thranduil's realm. The book-lined walls calmed him, reminding him of his library in Rivendell. He took down a book and sat, trying to focus his mind on the pages.

It seemed no time at all had passed before he heard footsteps. He frowned at the page he was reading, composing himself.

'My lord Elrond.'

He raised his head. Lindir was walking towards him – and at his side was the woman.

She faltered as she recognised him, and her face turned white. His eyes were caught by hers, and the years fell away.

With an effort, he looked away, rising to his feet.

'_Gi hannon, _Lindir,' he said. 'You may leave us, now.'

Lindir's footsteps faded away. They were alone.

She remained utterly still, breathing shallowly as she recovered from the shock of seeing him. He wished he had thought to send her a note to prepare her. He wanted to apologise, but found he could not speak. Their eyes met. She was looking at him intently, as though to convince herself it was truly him. Abruptly she turned away and put her hand against a nearby pillar for support. She lowered her head, closing her eyes briefly.

He wanted to go to her, but was unable to move. He had planned to greet her, to say something about how long it had been since last they met, but words felt inadequate. Instead he could only watch her as she remained motionless. At last she drew upright and looked at him. Her face was calm now, though a trace of uncertainty remained in her eyes. He had never seen her like this – when last they had met she had been distant and proud. Though some of that pride yet remained, it was softened; and there was an openness to her face that had not been there before.

Her voice was low when she spoke.

'I never thought to see you again.'

* * *

_A/N: Please do leave a review. I would love to hear your thoughts on the story so far._

_Gi hannon _is the informal Sindarin version of 'thank you' (I hope!)


	4. The Secret of the Tombs

_A/N: This chapter is set fifteen years before the previous chapter – the next few chapters will also be set in this earlier time. The following scenes owe a great deal to Tolkien's _Silmarillion_, as well as to Ursula Le Guin's _The Tombs of Atuan _and _Tehanu, _both of which I wholeheartedly recommend. They are the second and fourth books in the brilliant _Earthsea Quartet_. Many people have said that they read fantasy in order to feel a sense of wonder, and I have rarely felt such wonder as I did when reading _The Tombs of Atuan.

_I would like to add that at this stage the story becomes rather different to what has come before. However, please bear with me. I know exactly where these chapters are going and it won't be too long before everything falls into place._

* * *

Chapter 4: The Secret of the Tombs

_Harad - TA 2510 (fifteen years earlier) _

Darkness – everywhere. Even when she raised her hand before her face she could see nothing. Something groped at her cheek and she flinched – but it was the touch of her own fingers. She had never been afraid of the dark – but this was something else entirely. Stale air pressed against her, as though centuries had passed since it had last been disturbed, and the cold of the stone walls made her skin prickle against the coarse weave of her novice's dress. For a moment she imagined she could hear the low roar of the river which flowed into the Forbidden Pool – but even that familiar sound was cut off by solid rock. They had been walking for only a minute, but already she felt trapped. With each movement down the stairs, she feared that her next step would meet only emptiness. She stumbled, and the sound was deafening in the enclosed space.

'Quiet!' hissed Ikara, the head priestess, and she turned around, so that her breath wafted across the younger woman's face, doubly unnerving in the darkness. The novice shrunk back, aware of the six priestesses waiting in silence behind her. The silence stretched unbearably before at last Ikara went on her way.

They continued downwards until suddenly the stairs ended. Though she could see nothing, the novice knew from overheard whispers that a floor of rock now stretched before her.

'The Hall of the Dead,' whispered Ikara, almost tenderly. 'All priestesses, past, present and future, are buried here, watching over their greatest secret.'

They walked into the hall, their hands brushing against the wall to guide them; light was not permitted anywhere in the vaults. The novice followed blindly, unsure whether her heart was pounding in anticipation or fear. At the end of their journey lay a mystery which had been guarded jealously for thousands of years – a secret which had cost intruders their lives.

After fifteen years of first being raised by the priestesses, and then being taken into novice-hood, she was to become one of them. This was her initiation. Here in the darkness, she could almost be taken for one of them already. She had been given to the temple when she was only a day old, her mother having died in childbirth and her father too grief-stricken to care for the infant. The priestesses had named the child Amtar. It meant Pale One. Her father was from the north, and Amtar had inherited his pale skin, so unlike that of the other temple women, whose dark olive skin never burned in the fierce desert heat. Amtar's father had returned to the north and was never heard from again. A wet-nurse had been hired to feed the infant, and as she grew she was raised among the other orphan girls who were sent to the temple by families too poor to feed another mouth, or, as was rarer, by those who wished to dedicate their daughter to the temple.

The priestesses walked in silence, their steps never faltering. Some way ahead, the blackness was dimming into grey. Amtar blinked; but what she saw did not change. There was a faint, pale light in the distance, issuing from one of the vaults. They inched towards it, and she felt her chest tighten. This light would lead her to the secret of the tombs. Suddenly she wanted to remain in ignorance forever – to escape into the light and the open air – but she had no choice but to continue.

They drew closer until at last they came to an entrance outlined with the faint light. Ikara turned into the passageway and walked towards the source. Amtar followed cautiously, her palms tingling, the soft footsteps of the other priestesses never hesitating behind her.

They were approaching a small chamber, which glowed with the quality and brightness of starlight.

Ikara drew to a halt. 'Come, child. See our secret, closely guarded for ages past.'

Her nails biting her palms, Amtar stepped forwards – and caught her breath.

On a pedestal was set a jewel. It was no larger than a small egg, its structure crystalline, hard and bright. Its heart seemed to burn white, and it was from this gem that the light came.

Never had she seen anything so beautiful.

'Legend tells us that six thousand years ago a great war was fought in the north, across the vast sea. Kin slaughtered kin, and citadels were burned to ash, the blood of hundreds soaking the land. They fought for possession of jewels such as this, greater and brighter, but of the same quality of light. Only when these jewels were lost to mortals forever, cast into the sea and into the sky, did the bloodshed cease.'

Amtar gazed at the jewel, captivated even as her blood ran cold at Ikara's words. Light swirled at its glassy core, swelling and diminishing like a white flame. Its radiance was clear and pure – but whatever it touched seemed softened, and more beautiful than it could have been in any other light.

'Such a thing was not created by mere mortal hands, of course. In their generosity, the gods sent such jewels to Men, thinking to show kindness. But the hearts of mortals were ever corrupt, and the gift led to death and despair. For thousands of years we have been charged with guarding this jewel; that no more may die to possess it. It cannot be possessed, for it is too far above mortality.'

Yet a gleam was in Ikara's eye that spoke otherwise. 'We keep it hidden because no other course of action would keep it safe.' Then her tone grew hard and derisive, making Amtar shudder. 'While men are ruled by greed and bloodlust, darkness will spread, as it did before. We sense it spreading again, and it will not be too long before the final confrontation will emerge in the north, and our fates will be decided. Such evil cannot be fought openly; we must hide from it and resist in thought rather than deed. Were the jewel to be spoken of, were its light to be revealed, darkness would come on swift wings and crush it. The gods gave it to us, and we will protect it until they reclaim it once more. Our watch must never end: it has lasted millennia, and will continue until this world is no more.'

Silence fell. The jewel gleamed like moonlight.

Ikara spoke again. 'It is time for you to take the vow of silence. You will never speak of this chamber as long as you live, and you will guard it till your last breath. If ever someone should slip past your watch, you will seal them in these tombs forever; that they might never speak of what they know.'

The jewel's light seemed to grow and swell before her eyes, shimmering gently, calling to her.

'Do you so swear?'

She started, and the light receded. 'I swear.'

* * *

Three months had passed since she had taken her oath. She now knew every turn of the underground passages, moving through the darkness with complete sureness, learning their paths at night while everyone else slept. If anyone should stray into the corridors unpermitted they would be caught like a fly. Only very rarely did she go to see the jewel. The strength of her reaction to it that first time had receded somewhat, to her relief, but the deep admiration she felt for its beauty still unsettled her. She could not stop thinking of those who had died for its sake; those who might yet die for its sake. It filled her with a morbid fascination.

She began to dream of endless pits, collapsing walls, suffocating blackness. When she woke she would slip outside and the cold spread of stars would soothe her. In the daytime she kept to herself. She had never been close to any of the other novices, and so no one remarked on her increasing absences. After a time she began to eat all her meals alone.

Yet as another month passed, and then another, it became impossible to ignore how little had changed since her initiation in the Tombs. The same rites and rituals filled her days, along with the endless chores of spinning, sweeping, and grinding of meal. She had thought some revelation might come upon her, that she might at last find her true place among the other women. Instead she spent more and more time alone, restlessly pacing the complete darkness of the underground passages, emerging sometimes to take solace in the light of the stars. Gradually her morbid obsession with the jewel and all the destruction it had inspired began to fade, giving way to a monotony so absolute that it filled her with something like terror. Now the stars seemed to mock her, forcing her to see the smallness of her own life. Her dreams of suffocation grew worse until she hardly slept at all.

For the first time, Amtar took part in the initiation of a novice, the near-silent Zaniyah, and she saw once again the possessiveness in Ikara's face when she looked upon the jewel, and the fierceness with which she intoned that if any stranger knew what these Tombs hid, they would not hesitate to steal it, shed blood for it. Later, after the evening meal was eaten, stories were told. This was the hour that Amtar had used to anticipate most, though in the last month or two she had come to listen only a handful of times. That night, the stories were of the north. Mistrust and scorn battled with fear in the voices of those who spoke, and the ears of those who listened. The oldest of the priestesses spoke with relish of the barbaric horse-lords and warlike Gondorians who warred endlessly with the Corsairs of Umbar. Fearful beasts walked among them: giant spiders, trolls and dragons, and trees full of malice. Last of all, the stories turned to a strange folk, wise and fair, but deadly, and possessed of great power and strength, a people now long since vanished.

As ever, Amtar felt a curious longing in her heart, offset by dread. Her parents had come from those northern lands – her father still lived there. But he had left her here and never returned since: she was dead to him.

As the months passed, her thoughts would sometimes stray northwards. But how could she ever go there? She did not speak their language; she had no money, no trade. There would be bandits, and worse. She had heard of the fate of unprotected women with no gold or valuables to buy their way. Never in her life had she set eyes on a map: she would not know where to go. Nor had she once ventured outside the temple compound, surrounded by a plain of hard soil stretching out in every direction. To the north lay only the shadow of darkness, growing in secret and ever threatening to spread south. At least in the temple she was safe. At least here she knew her place.

* * *

Almost nine months after her induction into the sisterhood, she woke from one of her restless dreams and descended into the Tombs, hoping the familiar paths would soothe her. By now she was immune to the darkness there; it was almost her natural condition to move fluidly through the blackness. As she edged down the Hall of the Dead, she automatically looked ahead for the moment where the darkness began to be edged with grey. She saw the greyness – but something was wrong. It was too pale, too soon! Someone must be in the chamber. Icy determination took hold of her as she plotted how to trap them. For a hundred years these halls had been undisturbed by strangers. The trespasser would pay for their violation.

Swiftly, on silent feet, she stole along the edge of the hall, one hand lightly brushing against the wall to guide her. The light of the jewel was growing in the distance. Rather than taking the most direct route to the jewel, she chose one which doubled back to the sacred chamber, leading to a spyhole. A minute later, she was in position. She put her face to the spyhole and looked through.

A man stood before the jewel, his eyes fixed upon it, and he held up a small phial filled with pure light. The effect of the light on the jewel was like a fire roaring up out of pitch darkness. The jewel was now ablaze with a light so clear, so beautiful, that it struck her like a blow. Its surface glittered, thousands of colours shifting back and forth, all stemming from the pure light. In that moment she saw why thousands had warred to possess such a jewel.

At last she knew why light was not permitted in the tombs.

In her wonder, she had almost forgotten about the stranger. He was gazing at the jewel intensely. There was wonder in his eyes, but it was tempered by grief and vigilance. She felt almost afraid – what could he possibly have experienced that made him respond to the gem in such a way, where any other man would have been dazzled, or covetous. She strove to turn her dread to anger: how dare he come here, to places forbidden; daring to look at this jewel of beauty as though it merely saddened him, when he ought to be awestruck. But still her dread remained; she could not rid herself of the feeling that he had lived a thousand years.

He was drawn and exhausted; he looked as though he had not eaten in days, and scarcely drunk a sip of water in all that time either; water was perilously scarce in the desert around the temple. He must have wandered for leagues. His clothes were torn and bloodied where once they had been fine. He would have been a pitiful sight, were it not for the infinite experience written in his face. But for all that experience, it was clear he was now close to fainting, if not to death.

As she watched his eyes dimmed and he swayed, all strength deserting him. The phial faded to a watery glow, and he sank to the floor, losing consciousness. He looked dead but for the minute rise and fall of his chest. But she did not dare go near him. She could not shake the notion that he was not quite mortal. If she touched him, she feared he would wake at once, and she was not sure she would be able to overpower him.

With relief she remembered her blowpipe. Swiftly she withdrew a dart from her pouch and inserted it into the pipe. In a quick movement she took aim through the spyhole and blew. She had been out of practice for a while and her aim erred by a few inches, but the dart landed solidly in his upper arm.

Suddenly his eyes flew open and he gripped the dart hard and tore it out. Her heart froze in her mouth; surely no mortal could have responded to so light a pain, when so deeply unconscious? But he was too late. In but a few seconds the tranquiliser took effect, his eyes rolled back and he fell once more into oblivion. Breathing hard, she pocketed the blowpipe and walked slowly along the passage until she doubled back into the chamber. Forcing herself not to tiptoe, she went to him. First she took his vial and slipped it into her pouch; he would have no more use for it. Then with some difficulty she removed his sword belt and set his sword in a corner. It was his only weapon; without it he was quite defenceless. And now she would move him to one of the cells – giving it an occupant for the first time in over a century – and leave him there to die.

She stood behind his head, reached down and grabbed him under the arms. As she pulled him up his hood slipped down; she glanced at his face – only to freeze in horrified fascination. His hair had fallen back, exposing his ears, their tips narrowed to fine points.


	5. The Departure of Celebrían

_A/N: This chapter takes place in the same earlier time as the previous one._

* * *

Chapter 5: The Departure of Celebrían

The elf-woman moaned weakly as the poison burned its way through her veins. She had been struck by a poisoned blade while fighting off orcs in the Ettenmoors, and no healer had yet managed to help her. Elrond hoped that he would be the one to expel the poison from her blood; if he failed she would surely die. But as he worked foresight came upon him and he froze, horror binding him as he endured the vision.

'Elrond? What ails you?'

Dimly he became aware of Glorfindel's anxious voice. He blinked, his head pounding. 'Orcs – at Redhorn Pass. Ready riders at once – Celebrían is in danger.'

Glorfindel left immediately. Elrond was about to follow when his patient gave a low groan of pain. He looked down at her, almost indifferent to her suffering in his fears for his wife. The woman's forehead broke out in sweat, and automatically he began to wash it clean. But as his hands tended her, he found he could not even remember her name.

Hooves rang distantly; he turned his head to look out across the entrance of the valley and saw two riders on black steeds galloping up the path, out of the dell. He knew at once that they were his sons. He dropped the wet cloth back into a bowl, his mind already working out how many hours it would take for him to reach Celebrían on horseback.

'You must stay, Elrond.' Glorfindel appeared at his side, and his thoughts were cut short. 'More riders are just now setting out after your sons; together they will be more than a match for any orc horde. But you are our most skilled healer; and Menelwen needs your aid desperately.'

Menelwen. He glanced down at his patient, then out towards the fading figures of his sons. He felt Glorfindel's gentle hand on his arm and forced himself to focus on the elf-woman.

He worked steadily and thoroughly into the night, until at last the poison was expelled from her system and he himself shook with fatigue from the effort he expended. But ever his thoughts were with his wife and sons.

* * *

Three days later, at dawn, the riders returned. Though Celebrían had set out for Rivendell with several companions, she was the only one of her party left alive. Elrohir held his mother before him in the saddle, his face grim and closed.

She had been tortured, receiving a poisoned wound that was rapidly claiming her life. For four days Elrond stayed at her side, spending all his strength and all his skill in healing her. On the fourth day, with her children gathered around her bed, she opened her eyes for the first time.

As she looked from one child to the other, and then to Elrond, she smiled. Each of them kissed her softly. But when they drew back, fear and pain dulled her eyes until she lost awareness of them. No words they spoke nor any of their embraces soothed her.

Over time her panic faded, but the memory of her torment did not. For many weeks she spent hours at a time pacing restlessly in the gardens, one of her children at her side. Elrond firmly discouraged her from attending councils, fearing she would overstrain herself. She never laughed any more, and her smiles were fleeting. At first Elrond spent whole days with her, talking to her of happier times, her hand in his. But soon she sent him away, telling him not to neglect his duties. He began to work harder than ever, to keep his thoughts occupied, and to avoid her presence so that he might not see the helpless pain come over her face, or be reminded that he could do nothing for her. Having fought in wars, he recognised well the symptoms of despair, but he had never thought to see them in his wife. Worst of all was the knowledge of those who began to fade only a handful had recovered enough to stay in Middle-earth.

After two months had passed with no sign of improvement, he begged her to go to Lothlórien, hoping the companionship of her parents might help her where he could not. She agreed and departed with Arwen at her side and a guard of twelve warriors at her back; no chances were to be taken with her safety. The following months were hard for Elrond. His family had scattered; not only his wife and daughter had departed, but his sons had ridden north to hunt orcs in the Ettenmoors, consumed with guilt at their mother's fate. Nothing anyone said would soothe their consciences. Though Elrond never spoke of it, he shared their feelings of guilt.

* * *

Some eight months after the attack, Celebrían returned to Rivendell, unchanged but for a new calmness and purpose that filled Elrond with foreboding. The day after her return she asked him to meet her privately. During their meeting his fears were confirmed. Alone with him in their shared library, she told him of her wish to sail for Valinor, and to leave Middle-earth forever. He knew at once that nothing he said would change her mind – but when he asked if he might accompany her he was stunned and hurt by her refusal.

'Your duties tie you here – and what of our children? You cannot come with me. I must go alone.'

He put his hand to her hair then caressed her cheek, striving to reach her through touch where his words fell astray. But she only turned her face away, and he let his fingers drop.

'If there was anything I could do to keep you with me, I would do it.'

Her eyes saddened but she was silent. She walked away from him, seeming to grow smaller and frailer with each step. 'There is nothing you can do – nothing anyone can do.'

'Very well,' he said at last. 'Then know only that I love you. And I will go on loving you until I join you in the Undying Lands.'

She looked at him keenly. 'No, Elrond.'

He felt his brows lower. 'What do you mean?'

She dropped her gaze, and moved towards a chair, sinking into it. Her voice was scarcely more than a sigh. 'I am but a shadow of the woman I was, the woman you have loved for so long. I will never be her again. I will not have you bind yourself to a memory.'

His blood ran cold. 'You cannot mean that. You cannot abandon hope.'

She showed no sign of acknowledgment. Her wrists dangled slackly from her lap; there was no life in her hands.

'I will not let you.'

She lifted her eyes at last – but they were emptier than ever, and his anger sank into a dull despair.

'Nothing in this world can reach me,' she whispered. 'I have known it since first I woke from my long oblivion. Do not waste your joy, Elrond, by spending it in hopeless longing. There is nothing I want now but to walk beneath the trees of Loríen and find rest there, and freedom from the cares of this world.'

A numb emptiness spread through him; he could say nothing. At last he was beginning to comprehend just how much the attack had changed her, and his powerlessness to help her.

She looked down at her lap. 'I must go,' she said, so softly it was almost for herself alone. She rose, half-stumbling; her thoughts were far away, across the sea.

'And shall I see you no more?'

An answering grief touched her eyes then and she came to him. 'You have been my greatest joy. You and our children.' Her eyes grew vacant. When she spoke the solemn honesty in her voice was like a blow. 'But you will see me no more, unless from a distance – should you come to the Gardens of Loríen and I am yet living.'

'And if I called you, would you know me?'

She was silent; at last her eyes met his. He saw the answer there and reeled. He felt her cool fingers on his brow, tracing his face. He did not stir, nor did he hear her soft sigh, lingering in the room after she had gone.

* * *

He could not bear to see her or speak to her, though he knew that in three days' time she would be departing – forever. He dreaded to look into her eyes and know that she was thinking of the Grey Havens.

Once he saw her in the gardens with Arwen, and immediately he turned and walked back the way he had come, though his daughter's inarticulate cry of pain made his eyes sting with tears. He felt torn in two: all his instincts drove him to show Celebrían support and encouragement, but how could he when he could not accept that she was leaving?

For over two thousand years they had lived and loved together. For two thousand years she had been at his side, giving him her advice and support in all things, from monthly councils to the raising of their children. Her love had mended him after all the losses he had known. He had cherished her and loved her and she had returned his love wholly with a tenderness and truthfulness that was more than he had ever hoped for. It was impossible to imagine life without her. Was he now to lose her? In his long life, he had suffered much; more than any mortal could conceive. He understood something of what she felt. Yet he had never felt more divided from her - and he was unable to deny his gnawing feeling of betrayal. He wanted to heal her, to love her until she was whole again - but she would not give him the chance. And, in his most secret thoughts, he did not believe he would truly be able to mend her. Never before, in all the years they had known each other, had they been so asunder.

The night before she was to leave, without having planned it, he went to her rooms and called for her.

After a while, she emerged, wearing a night-robe he knew well.

'Forgive me,' he said. 'I have wasted what little time we could have spent together in anger and resentment when I should have been gentlest.' He fell silent. An impulse rose within him; he took her hand and knelt, pressing her hand to his lips, and then to his brow. His voice broke. 'I will miss you more than words can say.'

When he raised his eyes he saw that she had joined him on her knees.

'_Nîn meleth,' _she murmured. 'Long have I loved you …' She lifted a hand and with a finger wiped away the tear that had fallen onto his cheek. 'If there is one thing I desire, it is your happiness.'

He struggled against his burst of anger; how could he be happy when she was gone, and when she no longer wanted to share his life? But there was too little time left to waste in discord, and he wanted nothing now but to give her love and understanding when she needed it most. He only wished he had been ready to give it before now.

'I want to give you this.' She held up a phial. At once he recognised it as Galadriel's, made to hold the light of the Two Trees. 'My mother gave it to me many years ago, but now I want you to have it.'

It was the most precious gift she could give him. But all he wanted was for her to stay – and he knew she could not.

Not trusting himself to speak, he held her face in his hand, his fingers instinctively curving to the shape of her cheek. Closing his eyes, he leaned forwards until their foreheads touched.

For long minutes they remained like that, and it was almost as though normality had returned. But then she drew back. 'I must go. The ship will soon sail.'

* * *

'You must leave Imladris, Elrond,' said Glorfindel. A week had passed since Celebrían's departure. 'At least for a while, until you are yourself again.'

Elrond said nothing, watching the spray of the waterfall shatter into thousands of diamonds.

'Your sons will not return for some months, and the Lady Arwen is well cared for in Lothlórien. There is nothing you can do for them for the moment. Do not fear that your duties will be neglected in your absence; Lindir and I will undertake to fulfil all those tasks which usually fall to you.'

Elrond saw that his friend's words were spoken truly, yet still he was reluctant to leave. But Glorfindel and Lindir would not let the mater rest, and at last he agreed to leave Rivendell for at least three months. He set off at dawn and rode south, purposefully avoiding the Redhorn Pass, the site of his wife's ambush. He had refused a guard, for companions would restrict his freedom and he desired most to be alone – at least until he was ready to return home. As the leagues slipped by he felt little of his usual wonder at the sight of the mountains or the open country. All he could feel was dulled dejection and denial.

The distance passed quickly; Glorfindel had insisted that he take Asfaloth, his white horse descended from the Mearas, a breed of horses surpassing all others in speed, strength and stamina. Within a week of leaving he had crossed the Gap of Rohan. Next he aimed for one of the passes that led across the mountains dividing Rohan from Gondor. But as the mountains neared, he turned east instead. His vague intent had been to go to Dol Amroth, where some distant kin resided, but he found he had no desire to stop anywhere. He continued south-east until he reached the borders of Harad, and then passed beyond them. Grass plains turned brown, and the soil grew hard and unyielding. The barren harshness of the land suited his mood. He rode on.

Ever since leaving Rivendell he had been growing steadily weaker, subsiding on the bare minimum that he needed, though he was careful to make sure to care of his steed, as much for the horse's own sake as for Glorfindel's. As he steered past the borders of Mordor he ran into a group of orcs. He managed to slay them all without sustaining any major injuries, but the encounter forced him to realise how weak he now was. He decided at that point to send Asfaloth back to his master; the horse would need more water and sustenance than he, and Harad was not known for its abundance of water or grass. At some point, he would himself turn north, but he was not yet ready.

The further south he went, the weaker he became, and on foot he was slower than before. Elves were not affected by long hours in the burning sun, but the lack of water and food was beginning to wear him down. Still he was determined to continue just a few leagues more. He drifted into the dreamless half-sleeping state of the elves, stumbling occasionally as he walked. As a last resort, he might be able to use Vilya's power over the elements to aid him, but he would not do so unless it was the only course of action left to him. The ring's true power lay in healing others – and it was no one's fault but his own that he was in such a predicament.

At last – when he was beginning to give up hope, his ears caught the low roar of water that meant a river – or perhaps even a small waterfall – must be near. An outcrop of rocks lay in the same direction: the water must come from there. He managed to find a narrow passage leading through the rocks, and discovered a small pool hidden inside a valley of rock – much like the Forbidden Pool the Rangers of Ithilien favoured. There was no one near – he would sate his thirst, wash his bloodstained clothes, and then leave. But as he bent to drink from the pool, some instinct told him to look up, and he saw a doorway in the rock. At once his senses went on edge. Something lay beyond in the darkness. It had been so long since anything had stirred his curiosity that he determined to investigate.

After drinking his fill, he went into the passage. Remembering the phial Celebrían had given him, he drew it out. Without having to say a word, the phial burst into light – there must be something in this dark place that it responded to. He continued on until he came to a vast hall lined with tombs. For a moment he hesitated, fearing to show disrespect to those who lay there. He muttered a phrase, and Galadriel's phial went out, its light fading to a soft gleam.

It was then that he saw the doorway glowing with light. It must lead to what the phial had responded to – he was sure of it. He could not leave until he had found out what it was.

As he came at last to the chamber which held the jewel, the phial again flared to life, its light catching the jewel in its brilliance, flooding the room with starlight. As he gazed at the jewel, awe and horror gripped him. A vision overcame him, so strong that he trembled. His mother, flinging herself into the storm-tossed sea, waves crashing beneath the darkened sky as thunder rolled in the distance.

When at last he returned to himself, he had no idea of how much time had passed. By now his strength was almost completely gone, and he sank to the ground, numb. As he lay there, stunned by the vision, he slipped further and further into oblivion.

A sharp pain made him jerk up. A dart had pierced his arm. He grabbed at it and pulled it out – but its poison was already spreading. His head hit the ground and everything went black.

* * *

_A/N: _Nîn meleth_ means 'my love' in Sindarin._

_It is not strictly canon that Asfaloth is descended from the Mearas, but for the purposes of this story, he is._


	6. The Prisoner

_A/N:__ This chapter and the next one are heavily reliant on Ursula Le Guin's _The Tombs of Atuan, _which was invaluable in helping me to imagine what the interaction between Elrond and Amtar might be like._

_I would like to say a huge thank you to my kind guest reviewer, Daria. __If you're reading this, I hope you enjoy the rest of the story. Thank you for your lovely words of encouragement._

_One final thing to mention. Recently I have developed an interest in video editing, specifically 'vidding'. My first project, 'Vogue Elves', is now up on YouTube. It's very easy to find, and uses sophisticated and stylish clips (or at least that's my aim!) of Elves from _The Lord of the Rings_ and _The Hobbit_, set to the song 'Vogue' by Madonna. If you have five minutes free and are looking for some light entertainment, please check it out. I hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

Chapter 6: The Prisoner

Ikara came to her after the evening rites. 'It has been two nights since you captured the northerner. He must be close to death now.' Her eyes gleamed with a disquieting satisfaction. 'When two more days have passed, you will take one other priestess with you and dig a grave. Then you must bury him.'

Amtar did not look up. 'It will be done as you say, Ikara.'

She had not seen the prisoner since the day she had caught him. An hour or so before the break of dawn, unable to sleep, she had crept into the tombs, heading to a spyhole set into the ceiling of his cell. Holding her breath, she peered inside. The darkness was complete; she could see nothing. She had brought a shuttered lantern; in this place, far from the jewel, light was permitted. Very carefully she moved her hand so that the smallest chink of light escaped.

She almost gasped aloud; he was staring straight up at her. Somehow she must have woken him, though she had taken care to be silent. How was he not asleep? The hairs rose on the back of her neck. What magic did he possess that he was able to throw off the effect of her dart?

No matter. Awake or not, he was completely in her power. With his sword and armour gone, he was defenceless. She had taken his phial and his ring too; what remained of his sorcery without those talismans had not been enough to free him of the chains she had bound him with. Her fear faded, and her lip curled.

From below he gazed back at her impassively, his head tilted back so that his pale neck was partly exposed. For several long minutes they watched each other. The shivering of the flame in her lantern cast dancing shadows over the hollow of his throat.

At last, with a look of contempt, she shuttered the lantern completely and left.

An hour later she had reported the successful capture to Ikara. She described how she had used her dart to overpower him before dragging him to a cell and binding him in chains – but she had said nothing of his elven features or his magic. There was little point when in a few days he would be dead.

That day she devoted herself to her duties, but at night sleep eluded her. She found herself remembering his face staring up at her out of the blackness. Then she said to herself that he deserved his fate: he deserved death. He should never have strayed out of his green lands. She pictured him sitting alone in his cell, in complete darkness, slowly wasting away until only a corpse was left.

Over the next two days she found herself shivering at odd moments, and swallowing her food was harder than it had ever been. She could not stop thinking of his death, yet one more death for the sake of the jewel.

Now, two days after his capture, he must surely be close to dying, no matter his powers of endurance. She did not believe he would outlive the four days Ikara had prescribed.

Ikara was watching her closely. 'You must understand that he is nothing but a thief, a burglar. He deserves to die.'

Amtar looked up. 'I know. I will be glad when he dies.'

'Report to me when he is dead.' She made to leave, pausing to lay a hand on Amtar's arm, her voice weirdly unfeeling. 'You have done well, my child.' She left, and Amtar shuddered. She knew what she must do.

That night, while the other priestesses slept, she stole back into the tombs, this time taking a route directly to the prisoner's cell, carrying a water-skin.

He was weak, much weaker than she had expected. His eyelids barely opened as she stepped inside and dropped to a crouch beside him. He made to sit up, but then slumped back, exhausted. Carefully, she dripped water into his mouth, a few drops at a time, taking long pauses so that life returning might not kill him. The water-skin empty, she got to her feet. His head sank back into oblivious sleep. The iron band around his waist was still securely chained to the wall. With one last look towards his pointed ears, hidden under his hair, she left, bolting the door behind her.

That night she slept soundly, waking shortly before dawn to leave him water and some food stolen from the kitchens. Deep in sleep, he did not stir as she came and went. The day's chores went slowly, until at last it was night and she was able to slip away again, treading the now familiar path to his cell.

He was sitting with his back to the wall, his clear grey eyes still and watchful. His day-long period of sleep seemed to have fully cured him of his exhaustion and near-death state. She stood just in front of the door, where he could not reach her, and held up her lantern, watching him. Then she looked away. But there was nothing else to look at and soon enough she looked at him again. He had eaten the food she had left and must have used some of the water to clean his face and hands; the blood and grime were gone.

By the light of her lantern she saw the tattered state of his once fine tunic, and the worn-down soles of his boots. She had never seen a stranger before, and she could not help noticing the alien blend of fineness and strength in his face and body. She had only encountered a handful of men, all of them traders, and the thing she remembered most vividly about them was their beards. The elf looked as though he could not have grown a beard even if he had wanted to. But the agelessness of his face was still stranger than his lack of a beard. He sat still and silent, as though he were carved from stone, his expression dispassionate yet alert. And yet there was ever something hidden in his face, some depth of feeling and memory that both thrilled and frightened her.

She could not forget how quickly he had recovered from near-death; her heart was beating fast almost as if she were afraid. And yet he was chained and weapon-less; there was nothing to be afraid of.

His eyes did not stray from hers all the time she studied him. An intense feeling of foolishness spread through her. Setting her face grimly she put her lantern on the ground and straightened up again.

'Where do you come from?'

He took some time to answer, as though considering how much to tell her. 'From Eriador; a realm many leagues to the north-west.' His foreign tongue mispronounced the words, but they were clear enough.

'North of Gondor?'

It was the only name of a realm north of Harad that she knew.

'Yes. Are you a priestess here?'

'Yes.' Her eyes narrowed. 'Why did you come to this place?'

He said nothing. She could feel her face heating and was about to snap at him when he spoke. His voice, though low from disuse, was clear and melodious. 'I did not know it was here. I would never have found it had I not been lost, and in great need of water.'

'You're lying.'

His voice was calm. 'Why would I lie to you?'

'You think I'll set you free, but I won't. No matter whether you intended to come here or not, you can never leave these tombs, now that you have entered them.'

He lowered his eyes, and she felt a flash of satisfaction. Then he spoke. 'How did your people come to possess such a jewel?'

'It is not your place to ask questions.' Behind her cold voice, she seethed with insulted pride. His question had implied that the priestesses were thieves – when in truth there was no thief but him.

His eyebrow rose very slightly. Then he bowed his head. Despite the submissiveness of the gesture, he remained apart from her, as though her words could not reach him.

She felt an urge to shatter his indifference. 'Why are you here? Why have you left your green lands?'

He hesitated, almost as though he had not heard her question. 'I sought to wander, but did not heed where I went.'

'I thought Elves were supposed to be wise. Only a fool would wander without direction.'

'Perhaps.' His face was calm, but beneath it she glimpsed a deep sorrow. None of her taunts could disturb it; it was hidden from her.

A silence drew out. She had brought water with her, which she now placed before him. 'Drink, if you like.'

'You have my thanks, but I am not thirsty.'

She struggled to hide her unease at this reminder of his unnatural endurance. She drew herself taller, staring him down. 'You looked at the jewel as though you had seen its like before – but that cannot be. I know Elves are long-lived,' she went on fiercely, lest he thought her ignorant, 'yet it has been almost six thousand years since the War of the Jewels was fought.'

For a long moment he looked at her, as though he did not see her before him at all. Then he smiled quietly, saying nothing; no words were needed. Her blood turned to ice: how could anyone have lived so long? It was incomprehensible.

He was looking at her as though he could see every one of her thoughts, and understood.

Her face grew hot. She searched for something to say, something that would assert her power over him.

'You did not expect to see the jewel; or so you claim. Does it not amaze you that we have managed to keep it secret for thousands of years? With your death here it will remain a secret until the world is no more. No doubt you believe the jewel is yours. But you and your kind lost all right to it when you spilt the blood of kin over something god-given and pure.'

A shadow of grief passed over his face and an answering chill rose on her arms. She almost regretted her words: he must have lost kin himself in those wars.

At last he spoke. 'Perhaps it would have been better if your jewel and those before it had never been made.'

'Made? It was not made; it was given. The gods willed that it should be, and so it was. There was no making.' Her words were edged with scorn. 'You know not what you speak of.'

'I know even better than you, Priestess,' he said, his voice deepening.

'I don't believe you.' Her voice shook.

His tone softened. 'How can I expect you to? I am a stranger, a prisoner. Why should you believe me?'

His gentleness made all her earlier distrust flare up. 'Why indeed? Perhaps you hope to win my trust, so that I might give you the jewel myself. You think it belongs to your kind – but who has the right to guard it but us? We have protected it for nearly six thousand years, at the cost of only a handful of lives in all that time. If ever it were to leave this place, blood would be spilled anew, and war would break out. Even your kind – the wisest and fairest of all beings – have spilt kin-blood for its sake. That is why you can never leave – why it must never be known that this jewel still exists! Do you understand?'

His face had remained unreadable as he listened. Now he nodded silently.

She stammered, and unable to say anything more, she swept out of the cell, slamming the door's heavy bolt home so that the sound boomed down the passage. Let him think she wasn't coming back! Let him think he would die there. But in her mind she saw him watching her with that look that seemed to see all her deepest thoughts and fears. Hastily, she made the sign to avert evil and raced away through the darkness, heading back to the temple. As she passed through the Hall of the Dead a sudden yearning took hold of her. She had the phial – if she could only work its enchantment and see the jewel in all its glory just for a moment. She clenched her eyes shut and hurried past.


	7. The Choice

Chapter 7: The Choice

Several hours passed. During that time he was lost in thoughts, or rather scenes, events from the past and from possible futures, as if he were looking into Galadriel's mirror.

He knew that once again he was faced with a choice. He could despair and fade, or he could live. It was not the first time he had made such a choice, and he did not know if it would be the last. Never before had he been so far from all he knew; never before had he been imprisoned like this. The darkness forced him to face his choice with an urgency he had not known until now. Even if he never escaped these tombs, he could at least choose to hope.

In the last few weeks he had wandered far, and he realised now how close he had come to fading completely. And with this came the knowledge that he could not yet give up. He would keep on fighting the endless fight, watching over Middle-earth and protecting the Free Peoples.

He saw again the priestess's face watching him through the grille, the night he had woken to find himself in chains. She had known only scorn and mistrust towards strangers all her life, and yet had been strong enough to defy the customs of her order and give him life, and his choice. She retained an instinctive goodness that all the darkness of the Tombs could never take from her. Her resilience to the jewel was the strongest proof he knew of this. When she spoke of it, there was no jealousy or cunning in her eyes, only awe and wariness. Very few, even among his kind, were capable of resisting its lure. As long as people like her remained to guard the jewel, there would be no more wars for its sake.

* * *

That night Amtar slept little, and though she tried to absorb herself in her duties during the day, she could not stop thinking about the elf. Though her vows had not included a specific promise never to visit those who attempted to steal the jewel, there could be little doubt that if Ikara were to find out about the time she had spent with the prisoner, she would be furious.

As she bent her back over her loom, untangling knots from a skein of wool, she saw again his pointed ears and the unfathomable depth of memory in his eyes. He was so strange, so unlike anyone she had ever met before.

An hour ago, Ikara had reminded her it was time to start digging a grave for their prisoner, who must now be close to death. Keeping her face as neutral as possible, Amtar agreed, emphasising that she wanted to complete this task alone. It was her duty, as the one who had captured the thief. Impressed by her dedication, Ikara permitted her request.

Sometime before sundown, she went down to the Hall of the Dead, and in complete darkness, dug a man-sized grave. The soil was surprisingly soft down here, but it was still back-breaking work, and her limbs ached when she was finished. She felt watched; and wondered if the ghosts of the previous priestesses could see through her deceit. Pushing the thought away, she hurried back up to the light.

At dinner she took her meal alone – but did not eat it. The priestesses often fasted for four days at a time; she thought little of the missed meal. Stealing food again from the kitchens would have been too risky. When night came she descended once more into the tombs, taking the food, a full water-skin and a lantern.

The stranger showed no surprise when she unbolted his door and stepped inside. Yet neither did he seem to have expected her with certainty. His impassiveness partly soothed her wounded pride. She had hoped to scare him yesterday with her abrupt departure.

When she gave him the food and water he thanked her gravely despite the poorness of the fare, as though he were her guest rather than her prisoner, and she his hostess. His courtesy would not have been ill-placed at a great feast. He was very strange.

'Tell me of the place you come from.' She was sitting with her back to the door, her arms wrapped around her drawn-up legs. On the other side of the cell he sat with his hands folded in his lap.

He did not answer at once. 'A place called Rivendell. Some have called it the Last Homely House East of the Sea.'

'Tell me of this place,' she demanded, trying to hide her curiosity behind rudeness.

'I have travelled far and seen many beautiful places, but no other has touched my heart so keenly. It is set in a high valley, surrounded by rock and water, with the sky immense overhead. There is ever music in that place, for the people there love best of all to sing and ply sweet melodies from their instruments.'

She was silent for a while, half-closing her eyes, almost feeling the spray of waterfalls on her face, hearing the harps of elf-maids.

'Have you never wished to go north, my lady?' he asked softly.

She flinched; such a question was much too close to her heart, and dangerous. 'Of course not! All northerners are greedy barbarians – men who covet what is worst. Even elves have fallen to gold-sickness, or lust for power. Not even your famed _magic _has been enough to stop such selfishness.'

He bowed his head. 'There is much truth in what you say. But not all northerners, whether Man or Elf, covet only gold or power. And if you saw them, I do not think you would call the white towers of Gondor barbarous. And what of the stairways of Lothloríen, gleaming silver around the great trunks of the _mallorn _trees, whose branches let fall not a single one of their golden leaves?'

A fierce pain grew in her breast – and with a start she recognised it as longing. Images rose before her eyes of white citadels and silver walkways curving between immense trees. Abruptly she stood. 'Enough! Do not speak to me of places I shall never know.'

He did not speak for some time. 'I am sorry,' he said at last, 'I did not mean to cause you pain.'

'You didn't,' she snapped. 'How could you?' She sat down abruptly, furious with herself. Somehow she never seemed to say quite what she intended with the prisoner.

The silence stretched out as she searched for something safe to say. 'Why do you no longer sleep?'

'Elves do not need sleep as mortals do.' He was quiet for a moment. 'Why do you keep me alive?'

She started, unable to answer.

'Is it not against your vows?'

'What do you know of our vows?' she demanded.

'I have heard of your people and know that when a stranger enters their secret places, they never leave. I did not think the priestesses would permit their prisoners to be kept alive if they are never to be released.'

She turned very cold. 'You know nothing. You will not speak of this again.'

He hesitated, then nodded.

She reached for the lantern and turned its shutter back and forth, watching the way the shadows danced. When she tired of this, she pushed it aside and looked at him again.

His voice was mild. 'Have you yet managed to work the phial you took from me?'

She flushed, horribly aware of the phial hanging around her neck, hidden beneath her shapeless dress. She had a sneaking feeling he knew it was there. For a moment she yearned to give it to him, and plead for him to show her how it worked, that she might see the jewel in all its glory again. But she did not; she never could. At last she found her tongue, speaking coldly. 'That is not your place to know.'

He did not smile, or at least his lips did not, but his eyes gleamed in a way she did not like.

Her expression turned stony. 'Yesterday you said that the jewel was made, not given. You are wrong of course, but it would amuse me to hear of your people's belief. Are they arrogant enough to claim that it was they who made it, and not the gods?'

For a moment she feared she had gone too far. His eyes were graver than she had yet seen, and something about his look made her face uncomfortably warm – with a shock she recognised her feeling as shame. At last his eyes cleared, his eyebrows rising very slightly, and he answered her question seriously, telling her of the elf Fëanor, who had crafted the Silmarils out of the purest of all lights, doing so with such skill that some spoke of him as if he were one of the Maiar, spirits she could only comprehend of by thinking of them as gods.

She was quiet for a long time. It was all lies, of course, but it was a good story. It was difficult for her to think of things being made and unmade, when nothing ever changed in the temple, or in the pitch-black Tombs, or outside in the landscape around the oasis, where there was only dust and sand.

But something had changed. The prisoner had come – and she was here with him yet again, though she knew it was forbidden. Grave-dirt was still caught under her fingernails from digging the hole in which he was supposed to be buried – and still he lived, because of her disobedience.

She saw herself peeking at the ring she had stolen from him and hidden under her mattress, saw herself creeping in the dark, spying on him through the grilles, while he looked back at her with that clear look, so apart from her, and yet seeming to know her.

A rush of hatred swelled up inside her, catching in her throat. What was he doing to her? What was this spell he cast over her?

She imagined going into the next cell, where she had hidden his armour and weapon. She would take his sword in her hand, march back into his cell, and hold the point of his own sword to his throat. His eyes would flicker from the blade to her face. When he swallowed, she would feel the movement through the sword, through her hand around the hilt. But there would be no fear in his eyes. He would never fear her.

He sat motionless, his gaze not leaving hers for an instant.

As she sat in her corner, more alone than she had ever been in her life, a shadow moved overhead, passing across the grille. She froze, a cold thrill running from the base of her spine up to her skull. Someone was there – but how could they be? No one ever came to the tombs but her. It must have been an illusion, must have been the flickering of her lantern.

She stood and drew herself upright. She was hard and cold, looking down at him. Only once he had lowered his gaze did she pick up the lantern and go, bolting the door, leaving him in darkness.

* * *

All that night she could not sleep. She could sense something slipping through her fingers like water – and could not tell what it was.

Before she left to join the other priestesses in their duties, she lifted her mattress to check for the prisoner's ring. Her heart stopped. It was still there, but it had been moved ever so slightly, just enough that she knew someone had found it. She thought back to the brief moment in the cell when she had felt they were being watched.

Her hands trembling, she slipped the ring onto the chain around her neck, with the phial. What was she to do now? Did they know he was still alive? That she had kept his possessions did not mean he was not dead. She felt sick with dread. Had they killed him already?

Speculation was useless, and she could not check on him now without prompting suspicion. She forced herself to go about to her duties as usual. An hour or so later, she was hurrying across the courtyard when Ikara appeared, standing in front of her so that she had to stop abruptly.

'The prisoner. Is he dead?'

She froze, confessions catching in her throat. If she owned up to everything now, perhaps she would be forgiven. She would be one of them again.

But if Ikara had asked the question, she could not know the answer.

She looked at Ikara – and fought back the urge to recoil, for an instant feeling real fear. There was a hungry look in the older woman's eyes, at once frightened, jealous and rageful, hesitating on the edge of hope.

Amtar set her face. 'It is done.'

An obscene triumph lit Ikara's eyes. 'Good.'

She watched the older woman walk away. That look had taught her that as long as he remained here, the prisoner was not safe, even if Ikara now believed he was dead.

* * *

That night she walked the path to his cell for what she knew was the final time. When she held up her lantern and looked down at him, she found she was shaking.

'What has happened?' His voice was concerned, gentler than she deserved.

She shook her head, her emotions slipping. He was watching her as always. She could not do it – not yet.

She sat down wearily, gazing at him across the cell. 'Your people – they must be preparing now for the coming of the autumn and the harvests. What are they doing now, in Rivendell? Are they singing beneath the stars?'

He was looking at her strangely, as though he sensed her hesitation, and its cause. When he spoke it was not in her language, yet she understood the words instinctively, and the rise and fall of his words was more like song than speech. He spoke of the spread of stars, endless and eternal, and the joy they gave to the Eldar, who remembered ever that first glimpse of them on their first awakening.

She felt lost in his words, caught in a dream. When he finished speaking, she gazed at him, her voice brimming with wonder. 'Thank you.' She would carry those words with her forever.

He spoke seriously. 'It is the only gift that I can give you.'

'What have I done to deserve any gift of yours?'

'You have given me food and water, given me life. Such gifts are more valuable than you know.'

She lowered her eyes, unable to meet his for a moment.

The time had come for her choice. She could not stay here with him forever, listening to his words. She must either leave him here, for the last time, or set him free.

She felt so alone; an empty vessel, close to breaking. But she could see clearly at last. She knew what she must do.

She left the cell once more, soon returning with the rest of his few possessions. She drew the keys from her belt and knelt at his side, unlocking the chains which bound him. Then she stood back and watched as he rose to his feet slowly.

'You are free to go. It is not safe for you to remain here any longer. If you value your life, you must leave, now, and never return. I will show you a secret exit, where they will not see you go.'

He came forwards slowly. 'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

He hesitated, and she spoke before he could, guessing what was on his mind.

'I cannot give you the jewel – do not ask me to. But it will never cause a war again.' He nodded and did not protest.

It took him less than a minute to gather his few belongings and fasten Hadhafang to his waist. She watched him in silence. When he was done, she held open the door. 'Come with me.'

She took him through a passage that led to a concealed exit. The door was stiff with disuse, but together they managed to force it open. The night sky was breathtakingly clear, stars spreading in every direction. She thought of the elves far away, feasting and dancing beneath this sky in another land. Soon he would join them again, and the days he had passed here would be but a memory.

He turned his eyes from the stars to hers, his expression grave.

She removed the chain from around her neck. 'Here is your ring, and your phial. Forgive me for taking them from you.'

He took the chain from her gently, hanging it around his neck and slipping it under his tunic. 'I still do not know your name.'

'It is no true name,' she said, with a bitterness that surprised her. 'I would rather you never knew it.' She did not ask his name in return. It belonged to the place he came from, the people he lived among. Her only claim on him would slip if he gave it to her.

Still he made no move to leave. The ache in her chest was getting stronger, paining her.

'You must go – there is no time to linger.'

He hesitated. 'What will you do when I am gone?'

'I don't know.'

'Come with me.' His eyes looked directly into hers. 'Leave this place behind and start your life afresh. You are still young; there is nothing to keep you here, nothing but pain and memories.'

Words echoed inside her mind, the words she wanted to say. _Take me with you. To the forests with trees like nets for starlight. To a place of greenness and light. _But she stayed silent.

Her chest constricted. 'I cannot.'

'Let me help you.' He took her hand in his, gentle yet firm, like his voice. 'You are stronger than you know.'

She felt helpless, caught in his grey gaze. She saw so much time and experience in his face – it bewildered her. She pulled her hand away abruptly. 'There is no time – you must go.'

He bowed his head. 'Farewell, then.'

'Go safely.' Her voice was little more than a whisper as she watched him, motionless.

'I wish you joy.' Briefly his fingers touched her cheek, before he let his hand fall.

She watched him until he was out of sight, before she fled in the opposite direction, back into the tombs, noticing for the first time that her eyes were wet.


	8. Astrid of Dale

_A/N: This chapter is set in the 'present day', when Astrid and Elrond meet again in Mirkwood. It starts immediately after Chapter 3 ends. (Also … two chapters in just under two weeks! (rather than two months!)) I hope you enjoy the new chapter._

* * *

Chapter 8: Astrid of Dale

'I never thought to see you again.'

Her words hung in the silence between them. They watched each other across the room, warily.

For a long time he did not answer her. 'Do not doubt that the last thing I expected while in Mirkwood was to find you close to drowning in the Enchanted River.'

She smiled despite herself. He had never seen her smile before. It suited her more now than it could have when he had first known her. When had she learned to smile, when had she acquired this new openness?

But now she was frowning. 'Of course. But you at least have had some days to recover.' She was still leaning against the pillar for support.

'Forgive me; will you not sit down?' He pulled out a chair for her.

She went to it and sat, looking up at him uncertainly, guarded. He could not read her.

He could not help speaking to her gently. 'I hope you feel well again. I did my best to heal you of the effects of the river, but I fear some of its magic may still linger. Can you remember everything that has happened to you in the last week?'

She blinked up at him, her mind far away; she turned from him, closing her eyes, speaking painfully. 'I do not know if I can fully comprehend this. When last I saw you – a prisoner –' she shook her head, weariness in her expression. 'How young I was then.' Her voice grew strained. 'And now to learn that you are not only a lord but Master of Rivendell –' She turned on him suddenly, surprising him with her urgency. 'Tell me; are you or are you not Elrond Half-elven of the legends?'

He forced himself to meet her eyes. 'I am.'

Her lips parted soundlessly, her face full of emotion. She bowed her head, her voice low. 'I do not know how to speak to you.'

He was not prepared for how much those words troubled him. 'I understand that this is a shock to you –' He broke off, searching for adequate words and finding none. What could he say to her? In the Tombs they had not known each other well; and yet while there he had never felt this uncertainty with her. Indeed, in all his long life, he could not remember ever having been as lost for words as he was now. 'I am sorry,' he said at last.

She looked up at him, her expression almost harsh. 'There is nothing for you to be sorry for.'

He moved away slightly. 'I am sorry to cause you this distress. It was never my intention.'

She said nothing, only watching him warily.

He tried again. 'How did you feel when you woke? Have you recovered most of your memories?'

But this seemed to be a worse approach. She was withdrawing from him yet further, retreating behind barriers of reserve. He did not know what to do.

At last she spoke, her voice cool and polite. 'I felt fully recovered this morning, though there are still some gaps in my memory.' She bent her head. 'My lord.'

Her voice was low and uncertain as she spoke the title, but still it felt wrong to him to hear it on her lips. He looked away from her, wondering where this meeting had begun to go wrong.

'I do not yet know your name,' he said quietly.

For a moment softness crept into her face. She smiled cautiously. 'I am called Astrid, now.' Her smile grew ironic. 'Astrid of Dale, by some, Astrid the Harad by others.'

He had noticed that she still retained a slight but noticeable Harad accent. Where had she learned to speak the Westron tongue? What had made her leave the temple? There were so many things he wanted to know, yet he felt he could not ask.

'My lord Elrond.'

They both turned; a young elf-woman stood in the doorway, her red hair a shock of colour against the dark green tunic the Mirkwood elves favoured. She looked at Astrid, curious and alert.

'My king would see his mortal guest now that she is awake.'

'I will escort her to him personally.'

'He wishes to see her alone.'

Elrond glanced at Astrid to find she was looking at him, frowning. 'Very well,' he said at last. 'Until later, my lady.' He bowed to Astrid. She seemed uneasy at the gesture.

She hesitated, before rising and bowing to him in turn. 'My lord.' She went to follow the Mirkwood elf.

He watched her go, then pulled out a chair and sat, lost in thought.

He had not known how this initial meeting would go, but he had not expected it to be so sensitive, or so strained. He still could not fully believe that she was here. With a pang he realised he had not asked her how long she intended to stay. Would Thranduil send her away? Would he see her again?

And what would Thranduil say to her? More importantly, perhaps, what would she say to the king?

But such thoughts were too complex for him to dwell on now. Instead he turned his mind to her name. How had she come to choose it? The name Astrid had its origins in Dale, and meant 'divine strength'. He smiled slightly; he could think of few names which would have better suited a woman who had once guarded one of the purest objects remaining in Middle-earth, and had possessed the strength to resist its lure.

And what had become of the jewel? He was surprised now to realise how far it had been from his mind during their meeting.

'Elrond!' Lindir had appeared in the entrance, his expression anxious.

Elrond rose to his feet at once. 'Yes?'

'The orc pack sighted yesterday has changed course in the last hour and is now dangerously close to the Halls. Riders are readying their weapons as we speak, Glorfindel among them.'

His decision took only a moment to make. 'I will ride with them.' Then, thinking quickly, 'A moment, my friend. Tell Elladan and Elrohir to meet me before I set out.' He cast about, searching for quill, ink and parchment. Finding them, he began to write. 'And, if you are willing, please give this note to Astrid of Dale.'

* * *

The Mirkwood King's Halls were cavernous, pillars soaring hundreds of feet into the air. It was hard to tell if they were made of stone or living wood. Astrid followed the elf-woman along a path suspended in the air, and felt even less at ease than ever. What was she doing in this place? If only she could remember what had brought her into the forest, and then, unwittingly, into this palace.

She knew very little about the Mirkwood King, though Dale was not far from his realm. It was said that he never ventured beyond his halls, and jealously guarded his kingdom … in which strangers were never welcome. She did not even know his name, while she had heard of many other elves: the Balrog-slayer, Glorfindel; Galadriel, Lady of Lothórien; and Elrond …

The revelation of the true identity of her long-ago prisoner was still too fresh for her to think of calmly. To see him again, after she had given him up for good, and then to find out that he was the Lord of Imladris, Gil-Galad's herald, and warrior of the Last Alliance... The name of Elrond had often been mentioned in fireside tales, and when he did not figure in a tale directly, his name would nonetheless appear in connection with his illustrious ancestry. His mother's grandmother had been Lúthien Tinúviel, fairest of all the elves; and his father was Eärendil the Mariner, whose name was often invoked in a muttered prayer by the fishermen of Dale when venturing out on stormy waters.

He belonged to another world.

Was it any wonder, then, that their meeting had been filled with such uneasiness? What must he think of her, after all that had happened? She felt drained, vulnerable.

And all the while she was troubled by the feeling that she had forgotten something vital, something he too knew about.

'My lady.'

She glanced up, not registering for a moment that it was she who was being addressed. Her guide had stopped in front of a pair of huge, carved oak doors. On either side stood guards, their faces hidden behind veiled helmets, their eyes empty of emotion.

'The king awaits you.'

At these words the doors began to open, not making a sound for all their weight.

Astrid turned to her guide, struggling to hide her dread. 'How am I to address him? I have never met a king before.'

The elf-woman smiled; her face suddenly alight with warmth. '"Sire" will do, I should think.' Then she turned and walked away before Astrid could thank her.

Astrid hesitated in the doorway, depressingly aware of the space and silence all around her. Mustering her courage, she began to walk into the huge hall, her steps echoing in the vast chamber. At the other end of the hall was a dais with a throne. In the throne sat an elf as unlike Elrond as it was possible to be.

Everything about him was cold and proud. The crown on his head was threaded with the berries of autumn, and yet they seemed too perfect, too preserved to be quite real. There were no visible marks of care or hardship on his brow, or around his mouth, but there were no marks of joy either. It was difficult to imagine that he ever smiled, unless in bitterness. There was something hollow in his expression, something that spoke of a centuries-old pain that haunted him still.

She stopped a few feet away from the dais. He made no move to greet her, only watching her with one hand propping his chin, a study of dispassion. They watched each other for several long moments, before she lowered her eyes.

She heard the whisper of his robes as he stirred slightly.

'Will you not tell me your name?'

'I am Astrid of Dale, sire. I thank you for your hospitality to my brother and I. We never meant to intrude into your halls.'

'You mean that you would be happier outside my palace.'

She glanced up at him, surprised at the slight smile on his lips. She had been right in her earlier guess; it lacked any hint of warmth.

'Tell me; what brought you to Mirkwood? You were found beyond the reaches of my Halls, where the dangers of the forest are still undefeated. How is it; that a mortal woman and child walked unarmed through the shadows of those evil-ridden trees, while my own people retreat behind my walls?' His voice deepened, commanding, compelling the listener to obey and trust. It was a deeply attractive voice, and yet it gave her no pleasure to hear it. 'What are you doing in my forest?'

She did not answer at once. Though she could not remember the reasons that had brought her to Mirkwood, she was sure that she would not have wanted to share them with him even if she knew them. She straightened her back. 'I did not realise you claimed the outer reaches of the forest too. Unprotected, I thought they belonged to no man – or elf, and did not think I was trespassing.'

'An equivocator.' He smiled mirthlessly. 'I will give you another chance to answer my question.'

'I cannot tell you, for I cannot remember my reasons myself. The spell of the river is not yet entirely lifted.'

'You do not intend to deceive me, I hope.' He waited, but she remained silent. His eyes gleamed. 'Very well. You may keep your secrets for the moment.' He rose to his feet, towering over her, his robes pooling around him like liquid silver. 'Would your brother be able to tell me why you led him out of Dale and into these woods?'

His swift change of topic was disconcerting. 'No. My brother knows nothing of my reasons.'

'Then your reasons must have been confidential indeed, to require secrecy from your own flesh and blood.'

'Indeed.' Her tone admitted nothing.

He smiled appreciatively, the sight only chilling her. Her feeling that she must keep her mission secret from him at any cost grew stronger.

'I must assure you, sire, that my brother and I have no intention of intruding on your hospitality any longer. We ask only that we might replenish our supplies here, since we lost half of our stores to the river, and we will be on our way.'

'So soon?'

She did not know how to reply, and so she kept her silence.

'Where will you go when you leave? Can you even remember your intended destination?'

'I cannot,' she admitted. 'But I know I must leave as soon as I can.' But as she spoke she thought of Elrond. If she left now surely she would never see him again.

The king stepped down off the dais, beginning to circle her at a distance. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, trying to subdue the rising feeling that she was being studied for weakness.

'You say you are of Dale, yet that cannot have been your home originally. There is something about your voice that speaks to me of some other homeland.' He paused. 'Harad, perhaps.'

A cold bead of sweat broke out on the back of her neck. How much did this elf-king know? How much had Elrond told him? Suddenly she felt angry. What right had he to pry into all her secrets? 'You are correct. I was raised in Harad. But it is my home no longer.' Her tone made it clear that she would speak no further on the subject.

'I see I have pried too far into a subject close to your heart.' His words mocked her, hinting that he had not yet pried far enough.

He had completed his orbit of her. He mounted the dais and lowered himself onto his throne once more, lazily draping an ankle over the opposite knee.

'You are free to leave my Halls whenever you wish.'

She stared, not sure if she had heard correctly.

But he was not yet finished. 'But only on one condition. _If … _you tell me honestly why you are here, you may leave in an hour of your own choosing.'

While she was still speechless with dawning dismay, the doors behind her opened again and a Mirkwood elf strode into the hall. He went to the king's side and whispered into his ear. Astrid caught none of the words, but she saw that the king's face was grim and forbidding, increasing her unease. He gave short instructions to the messenger, too low to be heard, and the elf departed at once.

The king turned his eyes on Astrid. His earlier mocking watchfulness had turned to a careful remoteness. 'You should be informed, I suppose, that my doors are now closed to everyone inside the palace.' The king's voice was utterly dispassionate, brooking no argument. 'Spiders are swarming, and orcs have been sighted not far from here. Until my guards have dealt with these threats no one will go in or out.' His eyes narrowed. 'And you, Astrid of Dale, will remain here until you have thought of a truthful answer to my question.'

With those words, Astrid knew she was dismissed.

* * *

_A/N: Please leave a review; I thrive on them._

_I should note that according to canon Dale was not actually founded until 65 years after this story is set. However, for story purposes, I hope we can all disregard this. If you're interested, I've found 'Awaken' _(Jane Eyre) _by the film composer Dario Marianelli very inspiring to listen to while writing this story. I've also been listening addictively to all the Mirkwood themes from _The Desolation of Smaug _film, particularly 'The Feast of Starlight'._

_Can you guess who the red-haired elf might be?_


	9. The Suspicions of the King

Chapter 9: The Suspicions of the King

Astrid returned to her rooms after her exhausting and disappointing meeting with the Mirkwood King. She sank into a chair, leaning her head on her hand with her elbow propped on the table, as Nat came to her side, eager for news.

'What did Lord Elrond say to you?'

Astrid sighed. 'He asked if I was well. I said that I was. I discovered that it was he who rescued me from the river. There was not much else to say, and before anything else _could _be said, a Mirkwood elf interrupted us to summon me to the King.'

'The King!' Nat was wary and eager at once. 'Is he as cold as they say?'

'Colder.' She smiled slightly as Nat frowned. 'He asked me why we were here and I told him I could not remember. Then he said I would not be allowed to leave his palace until I told him the truth. That was after a guard came to speak to him – the king was very troubled then.' She pretended to be struck by a thought. 'It has just occurred to me; the king only said that _I _must stay. That means _you_ are free to go!'

Nat shook his head, unimpressed. 'As if I'd have a chance of finding my way home.' Then he leaned closer. 'But surely that cannot have been all you said to Lord Elrond? You must have had questions.'

'Why are you so interested in Lord Elrond?' The question was harsher than she intended. She did not like keeping secrets from her brother, but to tell him all now would raise questions she did not feel ready to answer.

He frowned. 'He was the one who healed you, and came to my aid when I was trying to get help. I'd only ever heard of him in tales before. And he let me stay while he was healing you – I didn't understand what he said, but it sounded like the most beautiful language in the world.'

She was moved by his earnestness. 'What was he like, when he was healing me?' she asked quietly, looking away.

Nat was thoughtful. 'He was stern – but kind.' He smiled. 'I think he was impressed by my questions.'

'Yes, I'm sure he was. Goodness knows you have plenty more of those.'

At that moment there was a knock at the door. Nat darted to open it.

'A fair morning to you, young Nat,' said the elf who entered. He bowed to Astrid, who rose and bent her head in return. 'And to you, my lady. It gladdens me to see you are awake and well. We were worried about you, were we not?' He smiled at Nat – who stood a little straighter – before turning back to Astrid, and holding up the tray he carried. 'I have brought you both a midday meal, if you will take it, and I would like to offer you my services as a guide. There is much of beauty in these halls.'

'I do not doubt it.' Astrid hesitated. 'Forgive me, but are you one of Lord Elrond's sons?' As she had made her way back to these rooms she had been met by Elrond's adviser, Lindir, who courteously gave her a note from his master before excusing himself on other errands.

_Astrid of Dale, _the note said, _I have asked my sons to act as guides for you and your brother during your stay here. I will be away from Thranduil's Halls for a while, and so am unable to offer my own services, but I am certain Elladan and Elrohir will prove capable and informative guides. _Here there seemed to be a slight hesitation, visible in the then hastily scrolled, _Elrond._

She had not known till then that he had children. How foolish she had been not to have guessed. Having lived six thousand years, was it not natural that he should have had children during that time?

She had held the note tightly all the way back to her lodgings.

The elf now smiled; amused. His face was undeniably like Elrond's. 'Yes, I am Elladan. My brother Elrohir will be joining us shortly.'

'Will you take us to the stables? And the armoury, and the library?' asked Nat.

'Ah, so you are a scholar as well as a warrior. I will take you to all those places, and more.' Even as he smiled, there was a slight reserve to the elf. Astrid sensed it was caused by past suffering, and not by any displeasure with his current company. He turned to her, diffident, but gentle. 'Is there any place that you would like to see, my lady?'

She smiled, embarrassed. 'Perhaps it would be better if you addressed me by my name; I am no lady, despite these fine clothes that have been lent me.'

He raised an eyebrow. 'Very well. Then what shall I call you?'

'Astrid, if you will.'

His eyebrow rose still further at her deliberate omission of any father or mother's name, or place of origin, but he made no comment, bowing to her, as she bowed back.

'You seem to have met my brother before,' Astrid remarked.

'Yes, my twin Elrohir and I have been keeping Nat company while he waited for you to wake. Your brother makes a splendid companion. He is a fine listener, and has plenty of arresting tales of his own.'

Astrid laughed, pleased; Nat was blushing slightly, but smiling. It was impossible not to like Elrond's son. Despite his slight reserve, he had an easy generosity and kind humour that made Astrid very grateful to him for his friendship with her brother.

After they had eaten, Elladan took Astrid and Nat on a tour of the Mirkwood King's Halls. Along the way they were joined by Elrohir, who greeted them with great kindness and hospitality, though he too had his brother's reserve and hidden sadness.

'You might notice,' remarked Elrohir, 'that very few of Thranduil's guards are present. That is because most of the king's able-bodied warriors, along with those of Rivendell, have ridden to hunt the orc pack which has drawn dangerously near. My brother and I would have gone too, but our father has heavily dissuaded us from hunting orcs for the duration of our stay here.'

'Yes; he claims we do it often enough in the Ettenmoors with the Rangers, and pointed out that here there is a whole guard devoted to protecting Thranduil's realm.' Elladan's tone was light, but Astrid sensed some deeper bitterness below his words. Glancing at Nat, she saw that he sensed it too.

Elrohir gave a sudden smile, his cares evaporating for an instant, and Astrid caught herself wondering if Elrond would look the same if he smiled. 'Perhaps our father fears that should the captain of the Mirkwood Guard see our prowess in orc-hunting, he would conscript us into Thranduil's service.'

Astrid could not help laughing; and Nat laughed with her. The bitterness was gone, and they resumed their tour.

'Your brother has told me you shape glass into windows and goblets and other such ornaments,' Elrohir commented to Astrid, as they passed through the kitchens where preparations were underway for the feast which would take place the following evening, continuing until dawn. Some of the elves glanced up at Astrid and Nat, curious.

'Yes, I have completed an apprenticeship in the art. Perhaps someday I shall open a workshop of my own.'

He smiled. 'I shall have to call you Astrid the Glassworker now, so that I shall have been the first to call you so when your fame spreads throughout the land.'

She laughed, amused and flattered, but he insisted that he was serious.

'Is it not unusual – at least among the race of Men – for a woman to pursue her own craft?'

She hesitated. 'Not always, though glass-working is not considered a womanly pursuit. I was offered the apprenticeship because I was able to offer my master some knowledge of glass-working techniques that he had not previously encountered.' He sensed from her tone that she did not wish to talk of it any further, and did not press her.

'It gladdens me that your stay here coincides with Mereth Nuin Giliath,' he said, 'or the Feast of Starlight as it would be called in the Common Tongue. In Imladris it is one of our less celebrated occasions, but here it is the most beloved of all elven festivals. There is not a Silvan elf who does not worship the light of the stars in their heart, as you will discover tomorrow.'

A few minutes later she asked a question which had been slowly shaping in her mind. 'If I may; what has brought the elves of Rivendell here?'

'My father and Thranduil are in the midst of discussing matters of diplomacy.' He lowered his voice. 'I am under the impression that the talks are not going as well as my father had hoped. Because it is so rare for him to receive – or admit – visitors to his halls, Thranduil extended his invitation to Elrond's counsellors and closest companions.'

'We are glad to be here,' said Elladan, joining in. 'It is not often that we venture east of the Misty Mountains, and we have never been to Mirkwood before.' He grew solemn. 'If only we had come here while it was still named the Greenwood; before the spiders swarmed and darkness spread.'

They were walking through a long gallery when Astrid faltered. Thranduil stood deep in consultation with an elf-lord. Both looked grim, and Thranduil's face only grew darker when he glanced up and saw Astrid. When his eyes fell on her she felt that he saw each and every one of the gathering lines around her eyes and mouth, all the marks of her mortality – and disdained them. Narrowing his eyes at her, he gestured for his companion to follow him into another room. He bowed his head to Elrond's sons, before walking away, out of sight.

Astrid felt her face heat up in anger – and shame too, though she knew she had no reason to feel it. Nat was looking at her in concern.

'Thranduil has much to occupy him at present,' Elladan said quietly. 'Do not be offended if he seems to slight you.'

Though Astrid appreciated his attempt at neutrality and kindness, she could not help privately disagreeing with him. She thought of how so far it had been elves of Imladris who had shown her the most kindness, when by rights it should fall to her true host, Thranduil, to welcome her, no matter how little pleasure he took in her presence here. She despised his discourtesy, and valued the sons of Elrond all the more for their kindness to her and Nat.

While exploring the palace with Elrohir and Elladan she had been able to forget her fears and nagging sense of urgency for a while, but seeing Thranduil again had made the anxiety about her unknown purpose uppermost in her mind, and she found she was no longer able to enjoy the tour.

Apologising, she made her excuses to the twins, asking them to keep Nat in their charge while she went off to be alone for a while. They agreed, hoping that she would find peace of mind and recommending a rarely visited courtyard at the back of the palace as a place suited to contemplation. Nat watched her in concern, but when she told him to remain with the brothers, he was pleased.

As she followed the brothers' directions, Astrid briefly wondered whether she should petition Thranduil a second time to let her go. But her pride had been wounded by his earlier rudeness to her. Even if she had been able to overcome her pride, she knew he would never let her leave – and besides, where was she to go when she knew nothing of her destination? Walking through the halls, she was ever-pursued by curious glances; reminding her how out of place she was here.

She could only hope that memory would return to her soon.

* * *

Dismissing his herald, Thranduil's thoughts returned to the report he had received that morning. It still haunted him, giving him no peace. Directly after dismissing the Woman of Dale, he had gone to meet the captain of the Mirkwood scouts, a disciplined group of elves who specialised in stealth, ever alert for threats at the edges of Thranduil's realm. The captain and a group of four scouts had tracked the Harad – last seen north of the broken bridge – following him deep into the dangerous parts of the forest, but now only the captain had returned, wounded and ashen-faced. In faltering words, he told the king his account.

The Mirkwood elves had tracked the Harad for a league or more, following him into spider territory, when suddenly his tracks had disappeared. In a clearing they found two butchered spiders, their limbs arranged in two words of the Common Speech: 'Go back'. One or two of the elves had counselled heeding the advice, and leaving it to more able warriors to continue into the place of the spiders' webs. But the captain would not suffer what he saw as an insult. He ordered pursuit, and they pressed onward, looking about them for tracks. They had scarcely walked twenty feet when a huge cluster of spiders came out of nowhere, so silent that even the sharpest of hearing in the scouts' number did not hear them.

All but the captain were slain in the attack, and as he fled the scene he saw a flash of dark garb through the trees, but did not dare pursue the Harad alone, injured as he was. He begged his king's forgiveness, and was plagued with guilt at the loss of his friends.

Incensed by his sorrow for his fallen subjects, Thranduil had immediately sent for Legolas, ordering him to take his most skilful warriors and pursue the Harad personally, slaughtering any spiders that crossed their path – and to retrieve the bodies of the fallen elves, if they were still to be found. Now he anxiously awaited news, though he knew that there was little chance of them returning before nightfall. Some part of him feared he had sent yet more of his people – and his own son – to their deaths, but he was too proud and too certain of the ability of his warriors to dwell on it long. Yet the shadow of his dread lingered in his heart, stirring long-repressed, painful memories of war, and the loss of his wife.

He had ordered the scout-captain to keep news of the Harad secret, and was now debating whether to share the full news with Elrond. Thranduil did not confide easily in anyone – and he did not know the Master of Imladris well. The business of Mirkwood was his business alone. And yet Elrond Peredhil was famed for his wisdom, and Thranduil was not too proud to turn from the possibility of good counsel where it might be offered. He did not want to repeat his father's mistakes.

And then there was the matter of his mortal guests. Though he had no tangible proof, he was certain that the Woman of Dale – or Harad, rightly – had some connection to the Southron now wandering the forest. He thought of his unwelcome guest with displeasure. Her word games annoyed him, and he did not trust her in the least. One of his guards had given him news which increased his suspicions tenfold, and he had ordered for her possessions to be searched in secret. Among her things were several items of Harad origin, further incriminating her in his mind. But he could not act until he had tangible proof of her purpose in coming here. He did not like to endanger his people by keeping her here – but he would not let her go until he found out her secrets.

Hearing that Elrond was at this moment riding towards the hidden palace entrance, Thranduil set out to meet him personally, moving swiftly through his domain. But as he reached the concealed courtyard that separated the palace from the forest, he halted.

A figure was walking back and forth across one end of the courtyard, lost in thought. She glanced up, only now hearing the hoof-beats that Thranduil had picked up long before. The sun was setting, catching the goldish glints in her auburn hair, and softening her face until for a moment she was almost a girl again. As she saw the rider, she fell very still, watching the horse canter closer, coming to a halt a few feet from her.

The Woman of Dale looked up at the rider; Elrond did not move.

Suddenly Thranduil felt a burst of anger and scorn. It was then that he decided he would not disclose all to Elrond. But it never showed in his face as he moved out of the shadows and into the courtyard. For a moment neither noticed him. Then he called out to Elrond, and both turned to look at him quickly. He thought he saw alarm in their faces, swiftly hidden, but not swiftly enough that he did not see it.

'I heard the campaign was successful,' he said smoothly, in Sindarin.

Elrond frowned for a moment. When he answered it was in the Common Tongue. 'It was.' He dismounted in a swift movement, then stood with his hand resting on his steed's neck. 'We sustained no casualties on our side.'

'Good.' Thranduil answered in the same language, the single word making it clear that he detested the language of Men. Elrond was watching him steadily. Thranduil's face gave nothing away as he turned his gaze on the woman, who was looking at him with an expression of careful neutrality which did little to hide her dislike of him. His lip curled, and her eyebrows sloped sharply downwards in response. She looked away, then, and softly touched the horse's muzzle, smiling as it snorted.

'Why did you wish to speak to me?'

Thranduil turned back to Elrond, who had spoken. 'There is something I must discuss with you' – he spared a slow, cold glance at the woman – 'in private.'

For the first time red appeared in her cheeks. She nodded curtly. 'Sire.' She glanced at Elrond, parting her lips. Then she turned and walked quickly away, vanishing from sight.

* * *

Elrond watched her go, feeling the sinking sensation of regret and guilt on her behalf. It angered him to see Thranduil treat her this way – and yet there was little he could do. He could not risk offending Thranduil, or revealing any more of his past connection with Astrid.

He had given away too much already, in his reaction to seeing her standing there in the courtyard, her face so open and clear, the compassionate light of sunset smoothing her features of their cares until for a moment it was as though no time had passed at all since he had seen her in the tombs, as if they were there once again, facing each other across the cell, two strangers caught in a place of darkness. He had forgotten that he had just returned from sights of blood and gore and pain; that his sword was only just clean of the blood of those he had killed – orcs or not, they were living things, and did not die peaceably.

He had fallen under the spell of his memory, and had been unable to conceal it. He feared Thranduil had already guessed much.

The king was looking at him with a watchful guardedness.

'How can I be of aid to you?' Elrond asked, his voice carefully neutral.

The king's dark eyebrows rose a fraction. Then he folded his hands behind his back and looked across the courtyard; the distance in his gaze slightly chilling to behold.

'This is not her first visit to Mirkwood.' He let his voice fade into silence.

Elrond felt a start of impatience. 'What do you mean?'

'One of my guards came to me today, and swore that he recognised our mortal … guest. He said that five or six years ago he was out hunting when he saw a mortal woman passing through the woods some distance north of here, heading east. He is certain it was her. He reported it to me then, but it did not seem important at the time. But now I cannot dismiss it so easily.'

Elrond was silent. Thranduil watched him with his unreadable gaze. 'I have forbidden her to leave my halls until she tells me truthfully why she is here.'

He spoke without thinking. 'You mean you are keeping her prisoner.'

'Prisoner is a strong word. As long as she does not attempt to leave, she will be treated as a guest.' His eyes narrowed. 'I trust you will respect my wishes and see that she does not leave until I allow it.'

Elrond did not speak for a long while. But he saw that there was nothing he could do to sway the king's decision, and so he agreed reluctantly.

'Until later.' The king inclined his head slightly and stalked away, leaving Elrond alone with his thoughts.

It angered him that Thranduil was in essence keeping Astrid here as a prisoner – and yet he was glad that she would be safe, and would be staying at least a while longer. Thranduil's orders made him more aware than ever of how far he was from Rivendell. In that peaceful valley, he himself was host and lord, able to offer wisdom and kindness freely. He had grown well used to that power and responsibility over the centuries he had resided there, very rarely leaving the valley. But here he was forced to remain silent while Thranduil failed as host, unable to say anything lest he risk offending the king.

He understood that Thranduil sought to protect his people – and yet the king's manner, his arrogance, suspicion and pride, made his good intentions all too easy to forget.

With a sigh, he took his horse's reins and led her towards the stables. He thought of how gently Astrid had touched the horse's muzzle, while his own hand had rested on the steed's neck. He had never seen her so gentle before. What had she been doing in Mirkwood five years ago? Why was she here now? Why had she left Harad in the first place? Had the priestesses discovered her deception – had they punished her? He longed to know the answers to these questions – but he wanted to hear them of her own choosing. He wanted her to tell him freely, not because he had asked.

Suddenly he thought again of the Harad man his son had told him about that morning – how long ago that now seemed, after all that had happened in the hours since. Was there some connection between the Southron and Astrid? He did not like to ask Astrid personally, and risk her thinking he suspected her of hiding secrets. He would ask Thranduil about the Southron during their meeting tomorrow, and hope that the king did not dwell much more on his past connection with Astrid.

* * *

Later that day, the Harad was captured at last. Fortunately for the Elves, he had left spider territory again. They trapped him in a thick knot of trees, so closely grown that he was unable to escape. They brought him into the Halls in the dead of night, and he had been locked in a prison cell. In all the time since they captured him, he had spoken not a word.

Soon after dawn, the Harad was brought into Thranduil's throne room, and forced to kneel before the king. Thranduil regarded the stranger coldly. The room was vast and empty. Only Thranduil, Legolas and the Harad were present. Legolas stood slightly behind the Harad, a knife in his hand, his face set with hatred.

The Southron wore dark clothing which blurred the lines of his body so that it was difficult to see whether he was lean or broad. A black turban and veil concealed all but his eyes, which were hidden by his bowed head. Legolas had reported that the Harad carried only a pair of long knives with him, and a blowpipe with a set of poisoned darts – the same Harad instruments that Thranduil's servant had discovered in the Woman of Dale's belongings.

Thranduil could feel Legolas's impatience, his need to avenge his fallen friends. At last Thranduil spoke.

'Why are you in my forest?'

The Harad was stoically passive, head bowed.

Legolas ground his jaw. 'Look at the King when he speaks to you!'

The Harad made no response.

Legolas looked up at Thranduil, silently asking whether he should punish the Southron for his insolence, but Thranduil raised his hand in a gesture of patience.

He regarded the figure for a long moment. Then he leaned forward, intent. 'Remove _her _veil.'

Legolas frowned, then obeyed. The Harad flinched slightly as the veil was removed but did not attempt to resist. The face that was revealed was undeniably a woman's, her skin dark and smooth. Her black, thick-lashed eyes were hard and expressionless.

Thranduil smiled. 'I thought so.'

For the first time the Harad looked at him, her face full of scorn.

Thranduil spoke low and clear. 'What do you know of the Harad-born woman who calls herself Astrid of Dale?'

The Harad only narrowed her eyes. Thranduil felt a growing unease – and it angered him.

'Have you nothing to say, Southron?'

When she spoke at last her voice was harsh, thickly-accented. 'Only this. Your guards were fools to ignore my warning.'

Rage flashed in Thranduil's face before he could conceal it. A moment later he was in control once more, his expression impenetrable. 'Take her to her cell. She will be lucky if I decide not to throw away the key.'

* * *

_A/N: My longest chapter yet!_

_The rather grisly idea of the Harad arranging spider limbs into words was inspired by Season 3 Episode 6 of _The Walking Dead_, in which the character Michonne leaves a similar spectacle for her pursuers._

_Some Tolkien fans argue that Thranduil's Halls should in no way be called a 'palace', because they are caves, resorted to as a living place in order to escape the spiders and the growing threat of the Necromancer. However, in _The Unfinished Tales_, Tolkien says that Thranduil designed his underground palace in memory of Menegroth, the great cave-palace of Thingol and Melian from the First Age. So hopefully my occasional use of 'palace' is defensible. Furthermore, in _The Hobbit_ Thranduil's elves feast outside (changing location three times), so I hope my later location for the Feast of Starlight is credible. (Sorry for the information overload, but these little details matter to me ;) )._


	10. The Feast of Starlight

Chapter 10: The Feast of Starlight

All day she had been unable to shake the feeling that she was being watched; but when she looked around she was never able to catch anyone looking at her. She was sure Thranduil had set someone to observe her, though why, she could not imagine. Nat had noticed her paranoia, and after a few minutes of surreptitious observation had caught sight of her watcher. 'He is short for an elf, with darker hair than most Mirkwood elves. He did not see that I saw him.'

So Thranduil really was having her watched. When Nat asked her why, she was unable to answer.

She and Nat had spent the day assisting Elladan and Elrohir and other elves to prepare for the Feast, setting out tables and chairs, and hanging lanterns. The work had distracted her from her growing sense of urgency and uncertainty, and despite herself she began to share some of Nat's excitement at the thought of the celebrations which awaited them.

Now Astrid walked through the palace doors with Nat at her side. Elladan and Elrohir were not with them; they would be arriving with their father and the other Elf-nobles. Now that the orcs and spiders had been dealt with, the people of Mirkwood were free to leave and enter when they wanted – all but her.

Nat told her that her follower had now slipped away. As she felt the cool air of evening on her skin Astrid briefly imagined flouting Thranduil's orders and making her escape. But his scouts would find her in a matter of moments. Sighing, she put aside all thought of escape for the night.

The Feast would take place in a clearing a short walk from the palace, in an area that the spiders had long stayed clear of. A great stream of elves walked with them, smiling and talking among themselves. She forgot how out of place she was; their joy was infectious.

As she neared the clearing, a voice called out to her.

Astrid turned to see the elf-woman who had guided her to Thranduil's throne room. The elf reached Astrid's side and gestured for her to continue walking with her.

'I have seen you about the Halls; you are learning to navigate them well. I am so glad you are staying to see this, our most beloved of celebrations.' The elf smiled; her simple beauty was breath-taking. 'I am Tauriel, one of the King's guards. One of the lesser-ranking ones, I should add. I have not been in his service long.'

Astrid found herself smiling back. 'I did not manage to thank you yesterday for your advice to me outside the throne room. Perhaps you thought me foolish for asking such a question, but I was nervous, and perhaps more than a little afraid.'

'Many are; where Thranduil is concerned.' Her smile could only be described as mischievous.

They reached the clearing. Here Astrid noticed that the general mood was somewhat sterner – heavy with the weight of recent losses. Tauriel informed her in a low voice that four Mirkwood elves had yesterday been killed by spiders.

Yet mourning could not diminish the glade's beauty. The leaf-strewn grass gleamed white in the starlight. Silver lanterns hung from the trees surrounding the glade, and four long tables with benches were set up around a large rectangular area. On the tables were beautiful arrangements of summer's last flowers and the first of the autumn berries. Today marked the last day of summer; autumn's presence could be felt everywhere. But perhaps the clearing's most beautiful adornments were the elves themselves, moving silently through the twilit evening, their hair streaming, their robes seeming to catch the light of the stars, their pale skin glowing with their anticipation of the night's festivities.

'There will be dancing later,' said Tauriel, restless. She too was eager for the Feast to begin, despite her sadness over the loss of her comrades. A moment ago she had been gazing upwards at the stars with pure awe. 'We Silvan elves have many dances known only to our kin – you are very fortunate to witness them. There will be dances of Imladris, too, I wager.'

'Does everyone dance?' As she spoke Astrid felt Nat look at her with curiosity, and wondered if something in her voice had betrayed her.

'The king never dances. Neither does Legolas, his son. I have heard Elrond Peredhil and his sons never dance, either.' She grew sad. 'Like Thranduil, Elrond grieves for his wife - though he lost her much more recently. It was only fifteen years ago that she sailed for the Undying Lands after she was tortured and tormented at the hands of servants of Sauron.'

Astrid's mind was racing. Fifteen years – surely it must have been the departure of his wife that had led Elrond into Harad, into the Tombs… She thought of the stranger across from her in the cell, his gaze unreachable, lifeless. Something in her chest pained her.

Again she felt Nat watching her too closely for comfort.

A hush descended. All the elves rose as a group of elf-lords now made their way towards the high table, Thranduil at their head. Just behind him were Elrond and a grim elf-prince who could only be Thranduil's heir, Legolas. Elladan and Elrohir were in the midst of the group. All wore robes of cloth that looked almost like water; so fine and silken was its material. Thranduil wore a crown made of red leaves and autumn berries, marking the change from summer to autumn. A silver circlet rested above Elrond's brow.

As Astrid watched him take his place at Thranduil's left side she felt how far he was from her – not merely in physical distance but in station and experience. He belonged to another world. And yet did he belong here? This place was not Rivendell, the home he had once spoken of with such longing.

Elrond was speaking quietly to the elf-lord on his left, but as she watched him he glanced up at her and seemed to falter in mid-speech. Last time she had seen him his eyes had been grave as he regarded her, his face far above hers as he sat on horseback. She had not known how to read that look – she was not sure how to read him now.

For the occasion she had loosened her hair so that it fell freely around her shoulders. Her simple dress was flowing and white, tied loosely at her waist with a cord of silver, her only ornament.

They were looking straight at each other.

Then Elrond's companion spoke; and he turned away, not looking in her direction again.

Astrid glanced away – and saw Nat quickly turn from her, a little knowing smile on his lips.

Before she could say something – she hardly knew what – Thranduil began to speak. His face was hard as he spoke of their recent losses, giving the names of those who had died, and counselling their families to take consolation that their deaths had been brave. As the king continued to speak, Astrid let her eyes wander over the elf-lords at the high table, wondering who each of them were. She had heard Glorfindel was among them, and could not quite believe that another figure of legend was present. As she glanced at Legolas he suddenly looked in her direction, his eyes narrowed in something like loathing. She blinked and looked away quickly. What had she done to deserve such a reaction?

Thranduil now raised his glass in solemn salute. 'We will honour the fallen tonight.'

* * *

The first song of the evening was of the Elves' first sight of the stars. It was sung in Sindarin, as were all the songs that night, but she and Nat sensed enough of its meaning to listen in silent awe. Tauriel left soon afterwards to take up her post as a guard for the first part of the night, and she and Nat passed the first few hours of the Feast in companionable cheer. Often she sensed the elf-prince, Legolas, watching her coldly. She wondered what his father had told him.

The general mood of the elves lightened perceptibly as the Feast went on. Good spirits became high spirits, aided by Thranduil's free-flowing Dorwinion wine, said to make even Elves sleepy – though they had not yet drunk enough to grow weary.

Sometime close to midnight the dancing began. She and Nat watched the dancers, silent with awe. There was something predatory about the way the Mirkwood elves moved, something savage and dangerous in their grace.

Later a few of the elves of Rivendell rose to give one of their own dances, something much graver but no less beautiful. Elladan and Elrohir did not join them. Neither did Elrond.

Mostly the elves danced alone, but briefly they came together in pairs, moving with such harmony that she felt an ache in her chest.

Suddenly the music changed, growing lively and joyful, and elf after elf rose to their feet, joining the hastily formed rows and clapping and turning in time with each other. Tauriel appeared at Nat's side and pulled him to his feet. 'Come, young Nat. You must dance this one with me.'

She led him to the end of a line and helped him through the steps. Astrid laughed in amazement as he quickly picked up the steps, not matching the elegance and precision of the elves but certainly matching their energy.

'He is a natural,' proclaimed a voice behind her. Elladan and Elrohir had left the high table to keep her company.

The music was infectious and she found herself tapping her foot. The cheer had spread even to the high table, where Thranduil and his son watched with a hint of mirth, and Elrond, too, was smiling. He had not looked at her since he had first arrived, but now as she watched him his eyes moved to her for a moment, before he looked away.

The song ended and the dancers returned to their seats, breathless. Nat was flushed and grinning from ear to ear as he dropped onto the bench in-between Astrid and Elrohir.

'I did not know you had been taking lessons, young master,' teased Elrohir.

Nat frowned in surprise. 'Lessons? What do you mean? I –'

'If there were no lessons, perhaps you have some elfin blood I did not know of,' laughed Astrid, joining in. 'How else did that dance come so naturally to you?'

Nat squirmed a little in his seat, for once at loss for words.

'Perhaps it was your teacher,' put in Elladan. 'She certainly seems to have enjoyed giving tutelage.'

At that moment Tauriel looked across at Nat, grinning, and winked at him. The teasing continued for quite some time after that, until, taking pity on him, Elrohir suggested a walk. 'I for one have grown weary of sitting.'

They all went with him and walked around the edge of the clearing, stopping after a full circuit and standing in the shadow of the huge trunks, elf-lanterns swaying gently just above them. Harp music floated on the air, layered with the clear notes of flutes, and the sounds of creaking branches and rustling leaves. While Elladan and Elrohir told Nat in hushed voices of the time when Thranduil's father, Oropher, had moved the Greenwood elves northwards, resenting the intrusions of Galadriel and Celeborn into Lórien, Astrid closed her eyes and leaned back against a tree trunk, feeling more at peace than she had felt in a long time.

When she opened her eyes, she saw that Elrond was standing with the twins and Nat, smiling at something Elladan was telling him. After a while, Elladan and Elrohir took Nat to go and watch one of the elves relighting some of the lanterns, and Elrond came to stand beside Astrid. He did not speak for a long while, gazing across the clearing, watching Lindwen, the most skilled and gifted singer of all Sindar elves. Her hair glinted like silver, and her voice cast a spell over all who heard it.

'I have heard many singers among my people,' Elrond said quietly. 'Few have her gift.'

She hesitated. 'Tell me; what does she sing of?'

His eyes grew distant, grave. 'She sings of the meeting of Beren and Lúthien, whose love was doomed from its very beginning, because it could not withstand the Gift of the Second Kindred.'

She held her breath. 'You mean death.'

His voice was low, almost repentant. 'Yes.'

She felt cold suddenly, wrapping her arms around her middle. She felt him glance at her, but he said nothing.

The shadows swayed softly around them, dappling his profile and her bare forearms. Lindwen's song had ended. Her voice and the flute had fallen silent. Astrid could hear nothing but the stirring of the leaves, and the beating of her own pulse. Her heart caught painfully in her chest. Words rose in her mind, but she did not dare give them voice.

_I have thought of you so often. Did you ever think of me? _

He looked back at her, growing wary, seeming as though he were about to speak.

Then Nat returned, with Elladan and Elrohir in his wake, and the moment passed.

As Nat started to tell Astrid about the peculiar lantern-light, Lindwen began to sing again, and all those gathered in the clearing fell silent. This was the song that had been composed specially for the occasion, the one they had all been waiting for. She moved forwards, the starlight glinting in her hair and on her bare arms. She was smiling, a smile both of joy and sadness.

The words were in Sindarin, and yet the sound of them made gooseflesh rise on Astrid's arms and neck in a rush of understanding. She forgot to breathe, the whole world seeming to fall still. Even before Elladan's whisper reached her ear, she knew. 'She sings of the Silmarils, the most perfect jewels ever made.'

She glanced at Elrond; he was gazing at her, like her transported to a dark cell underground, in a land far away in both distance and culture.

She remembered. She remembered it all. Her unknown urgency, her meaningless dread – she knew now what it was.

She felt suddenly weak and exhausted.

He was at her side. They were not quite touching but she felt his strength and it sustained her.

'I must speak with you. Alone,' she said; her voice audible only to him.

'I cannot leave the Feast.' His voice was yet lower than hers. 'Thranduil would take offence.'

'I know. But tomorrow morning – as soon as you can, meet me in the library where we first met.'

He inclined his head. 'I will be there.'

She heard no more of the song, instead seeming to hear only the thrumming of the blood in her veins. At last the song ended, and she applauded blindly along with the rest. Then she turned to Nat. 'The wine has defeated me. I must return to our chambers now or shame myself by falling asleep with my head on the table.'

He did not look convinced. All day he had been worried about her, sensing her doubt and indecision and now he knew at once that something vital had occurred.

He opened his mouth, but she cut him off, smiling. 'You need not come with me. Elladan and Elrohir will keep you company, I am sure.'

He saw that it was useless to argue and so he gave in; but she could tell that tomorrow she would have no choice but to answer his questions. With a rush of fondness she kissed him and bade him goodnight.

She fled down the path leading back to the Halls, the way lit by burning braziers, her mind full of plans and anxieties about her discovery. Her one consolation was that she had not lost much time after all: only two days had passed since she had fallen into the river. And the broken bridge meant her pursuer's progress would be slowed. But would it be enough?

She had barely covered a hundred yards when a voice called to her from the shadows and she turned to see the person she least wanted to encounter.

'Tell me, when did you first meet Lord Elrond?'

She fell still, her hands clenching unthinkingly. She turned to face the king. 'Yesterday morning, when he summoned me to him after –'

'When did you meet him before?'

His voice seemed to persuade through tone rather than sense. It held an easy power that oppressed her spirits; each word he spoke assumed the right to be obeyed and trusted.

She said nothing, only meeting his gaze stonily. She wished he would let her go. She needed to be alone, to reflect.

A cold light shifted on his face. 'He watches you. More often than even he knows.'

Still she did not speak, though her insides had turned to ice.

Thranduil smiled, his eyes cold, his head tilting slightly to one side. 'My suspicions began from the very first time he spoke of you. But I paid them little heed until I saw you together yesterday. I began to wonder what an elf-lord could find at all interesting in a mortal of no special rank, wealth or beauty.'

She could not help it; she laughed out loud.

For a moment his eyes went black. Then he was impassive once more, but for a scornful little smile on his lips. 'I admit; I was almost intrigued by you as I sought to see what Elrond found so fascinating. I had other reasons for watching you. I do not lightly admit strangers into my kingdom.' He was silent for a while. She thought she saw something guarded in his face. Could he consider her a threat?

His brows lowered. 'And now I think I begin to see.' He drew closer, chilling her. 'You hide it well, but you cannot hide it from me. You betrayed yourself in your reaction to Lindwen's song. The Silmarils of Fëanor; you have been touched by the purest of all lights; it has marked you.' His eyes grew almost hungry. 'None who have seen that light can forget it.'

His voice dropped low, intense and hypnotising. 'Now tell me truthfully: where did you first meet Elrond – and I do not mean on the banks of the Black River.'

She felt a wave of weariness.

'That is not my story alone to tell. And even if it were, I would not share it with you.'

His thick eyebrows rose high, then fell as his eyes turned cold as steel. His voice was brusque. 'You may have no choice.' Suddenly he stepped closer, gripping her chin with his fingers, forcing her to look at him. She did not flinch from his inspection. She refused to give him the satisfaction.

He spoke with incensed perplexity. 'Why are you here? I thought you a spy from Harad but now I find I do not know what to think.'

So he had thought her a spy! She was angered, though not much surprised. Somehow she held her tongue.

His voice was soft, inescapable; she felt the chill of the night deepen around her. 'You are out of your depths, mortal. Your life is as fleeting and meaningless as a mayfly's is to a dragon. I almost pity you.'

The heaviness of the darkness between the trees, the vastness of the forest all around, became unbearable.

He let his hand fall and stepped away. 'You may keep your secrets for now, Astrid of Harad, but know this: nothing remains hidden from me for long.'

Then he was gone, vanishing into the shadows, his robes pooling behind him into the darkness.

She drew in a shuddering breath before going on her way.

* * *

_A/N: I'm finding that Thranduil makes a very good character to end scenes and even chapters with! Conversations with him seem to lead to the issuing of ultimatums, creating choices and conflict – and drama._

_I'd like to say thank you to everyone reading this story – your support keeps me inspired. I wasn't expecting to build such a following for this story, so thank you :) __ Please leave a review; I'd love to hear your thoughts._

_I couldn't resist mentioning the uncomfortable history between Thranduil's father and Galadriel. (It's only mentioned very briefly, and I found it completely by accident). I always find it amusing because Elrond is of course Galadriel's son-in-law. Thranduil, however, was willing to allow Galadriel to visit him, and even gave Celeborn some newly-shadow-free forest after the events of _The Lord of the Rings.


	11. Awaken

_A/N: I apologise about this delayed update. I've been very busy, and this story is incredibly time-consuming. I fully intend to complete this story, but I can't promise to do so very quickly. When I started this story I never imagined it would grow to more than 30,000, or at most 35,000 words, but I am fast approaching that length. I estimate this story will be around 45,000 words by the time it's finished; and 16 or 17 chapters long._

_Thank you to the readers who have stuck with me. Particularly my dedicated reader in France. _

_Please do leave a review. Reading your comments means a lot to me, and really helps keep me inspired._

_I have made a video for this story. I've collected a montage of inspiring images and set them to 'Awaken' from Jane Eyre (2011). My account name on YouTube is Vogue Elf, and the video is called 'Heavy the Night – 'Awaken''. I've also uploaded a drawing of Elrond and Astrid to my deviantart account – my username there is darkeningwater._

_I hope you enjoy the new chapter._

* * *

Chapter 11: Awaken

After Astrid left Elrond strove to re-immerse himself in the night's celebrations, wanting to avoid drawing any more attention to himself. He was aware that his sons had noticed something amiss in Astrid's reaction to Linwen's song; and he had noticed Thranduil slip away moments after Astrid had departed. A few minutes later Thranduil had returned to the feast, his expression cool and hard. Elrond dreaded to think what might have happened. Yet he could not leave to find out more without stirring notice.

'Father; I must ask you something.'

Elrond turned to find Elladan at his elbow. Dread settled in his chest as he waited for the question.

'How long have you known Astrid of Dale?'

Elrond looked away. He would not lie to his son; but neither was he ready to reveal the full truth.

'Forgive me,' said Elladan, at once. 'I see that this question pains you.'

'There is nothing to forgive,' Elrond said firmly. 'You are right; I have known her for some time. This was not our first meeting. But I cannot tell you more than that. It is not my story alone to tell. And in truth I would rather tell it when we are home in Imladris.'

Elladan frowned, half-curious and half-perturbed. But he nodded. 'Then I will question you no further.'

Elrond thanked him with warm gratitude before moving back to the high table to join Glorfindel and Lindir. His mind was gripped by a desire to find out what revelation had driven Astrid from the Feast – but he forced himself to put it aside until he was able to go to her once the Feast was over. As he approached the high table he noticed Thranduil watching him coolly and his heart sank. His diplomatic meeting with Thranduil that morning had been unproductive and difficult. Thranduil had been impassive and frustratingly unreceptive to Elrond's proposals for new trade routes between Lothlórien and Mirkwood. Elrond found himself growing ever more impatient with the King. He had asked Thranduil about the Harad seen by elven scouts a few days ago. Thranduil had given a noncommittal answer and firmly changed the subject. Legolas was also at the meeting, his demeanour angrier than his father's, and just as forbidding. As Elrond glanced between them, he could not help worrying that the son was turning into the father.

Thranduil had not mentioned Astrid again; but Elrond took little comfort in this. He knew well that when Thranduil showed little outward interest in something, he was secretly at his most watchful.

* * *

When Elrond left his rooms at the break of dawn, he found Thranduil waiting for him.

'Come with me,' was all he said. His face was so stern that Elrond obeyed, hoping silently that the matter would not take too long, and that Astrid would not think he had reneged on his promise to meet her.

Thranduil led him deeper and deeper into the caves until they were descending into the dungeons, which Elrond had never had cause to visit before. In a cell near the bottom they found a prisoner.

She watched them with her dark eyes, alert and mistrustful. As she saw Elrond her eyes widened a fraction – so briefly he almost missed it. Then her face closed. Elrond gazed at her, his dread mounting, heightened by curiosity. This woman was from Harad; what was she doing here, in Thranduil's dungeons, hundreds of leagues from her homeland? Seeing her here behind bars made his own time as a prisoner in Harad return to him vividly. This woman was not dressed at all like a priestess, and he had never seen her in his life – but he could not dismiss his instinct that when she had first looked at him just now it had been with shocked recognition. He felt a growing alarm.

But he gave no outward sign of it. He could sense Thranduil's watchful gaze moving between him and the woman, missing nothing.

Close to his ear, Thranduil spoke in soft Sindarin. 'You will remember my concern about the Harad man seen in the forest a few days ago. This is 'he'... She is responsible for the deaths of four of my scouts,' he continued in a steely voice, his eyes hard. 'So far she has been silent about the purpose which brought her into my realm. I will not release her until she speaks.'

Elrond drew Thranduil aside, answering in Sindarin. 'How long has she been locked away here?'

'Since the previous morning.'

'And you did not think to mention her capture in yesterday's meeting?'

Thranduil only regarded him coolly. Elrond bit back his impatience and anger, looking away, thinking quickly. If this woman had indeed singlehandedly caused the deaths of four highly-skilled Mirkwood guards, she was a threat to any who encountered her. That Thranduil had kept such an important matter secret from him made his blood beat faster with annoyance. Perhaps his anger was unreasonable: this was Thranduil's realm; its security was the King's business alone. And yet after a week of being disregarded in diplomacy meetings, Elrond would have welcomed the confidence. The strength of his own resentment surprised him.

Thranduil was watching him silently. With an effort Elrond kept his expression neutral, hiding his feelings.

'I have a request for you,' Thranduil said at last. 'I know you are learned in the Harad tongue, as indeed you are in all the languages of Men.' Elrond was sure he did not imagine a faint hint of distaste in Thranduil's voice. 'So far she has refused to answer my questions, though she clearly understands the Common Tongue. Perhaps she will respond to her native tongue where she is otherwise silent. On my behalf, I would have you ask her this: is she familiar with the woman who calls herself Astrid of Dale?'

Elrond kept his expression unreadable as he asked the question in the Harad tongue. Despite himself, he felt a quickening of curiosity as he waited for her answer. But she only watched him narrowly, giving no other reaction to the question.

Thranduil gave a sigh of impatience. 'Very well. Ask her where she comes from. Why she is here.'

Still, the woman made no response.

Thranduil's eyes narrowed. 'I see it is no use. You may leave. We will try again tomorrow.'

* * *

Elrond found Astrid pacing in the library. She looked up with relief at his arrival.

'I am sorry I am late. Thranduil summoned me in person just as I was on my way to meet you. He took me down to the dungeons. Since yesterday night a Harad woman has been kept there.'

Astrid's mouth fell open, yet she made no sound. 'What did she say?'

'So far she has said nothing.' He hesitated. 'She seemed to recognise me, though I had never seen her in my life. She would say nothing while Thranduil was there and I did not have the chance to speak to her alone.'

Astrid was pale, her expression hard. 'I see now that we have much less time than I thought.'

'What do you mean?'

She gazed at him, intent. 'I will tell you everything, so that you will understand why I need your help – but there isn't much time. As I was leaving the Feast Thranduil approached me and tried to compel me to reveal how you and I first met. He suspects we have met elsewhere – and he mentioned the Jewels of Fëanor. Your questions may have to wait; we cannot linger here.'

He nodded, silenced by her seriousness. Some part of him felt a deep curiosity and excitement: at last he was to know what had brought her to Mirkwood.

'After you left, the Tombs became a weary place for me. I was friendless, and the rites now felt pointless and superstitious. Yet still I feared to leave, because unsatisfying as it was, it was my home, and I had never left it in my life.

'One day I felt the urge to look at the jewel, which I had not done since I met you. I went into the Tombs, and there found Ikara, the Head Priestess, standing over the mound which marked the grave I had filled with earth. I had told her it contained the prisoner's dead body.' Her eyes flicked briefly to his before clouding with memory. 'She had brought a lantern with her, where light was forbidden. She did not see me for her lantern made more shadows than light. Her face was marred with a full hatred – suddenly she leaned forward and spat on the earth, then made a sign which in our culture – the Harad culture – translates as the most vile and punishing of all curses. Then she turned and walked towards the jewel.

'I followed her in secret and saw her gazing at it with naked covetousness. She did not dare to touch it – but she came very close. I knew that she would kill anyone who tried to claim it, or take it from her. After a long time, she slunk back to the temple.

'The force of her hatred towards the grave frightened me, as did her desire to keep the jewel for herself. I had promised you that the jewel would not cause any more deaths – a promise I intended to keep. I watched Ikara carefully, but she gave no more outward signs of her obsession.

'Six months passed in utter drudgery. One night I descended into the Tombs with the other priestesses to oversee the initiation of a new novice into priestesshood. The ceremony went as it usually did – until the novice, so overcome with awe for the jewel, reached out to touch it and Ikara struck her so viciously that she fell back and hit her head against the rock wall, cutting a deep gash in the crown of her head.

'I knew then that the jewel was not truly safe there, not when even the priestesses who guarded it could fall prey to its lure. That night I took the jewel in secret and fled. It was my sole possession.

'My plan was to go north, where I had always longed to go, and to hide the jewel somewhere there. I had heard there were many secret places – huge, dark forests, and silent caves. Surely there would be somewhere that would hide such a thing.

'The journey was long and hard. I knew only that I had to keep heading northeast. When I was nearly dead from starvation, I came to the home of an old woman, who took me in and nursed me back to health. She was surprisingly learned, and taught me a few phrases of Westron, which were invaluable to me when I first arrived north.

'Recovered again, I resumed my journey, and at last reached the borders of Gondor. I came to Minas Tirith and found lodging in the home of a scholar deeply interested in Harad. He and his wife were very kind to me, and my stay there lengthened from days to weeks to months – and then into years. After five years in Minas Tirith, I began to hear tell of a merchant in Dale who was asking far and wide about an object long thought lost, a jewel like a Silmaril, but a lesser one. Rumours said that he had never recovered after losing his wife in Harad, leaving his newborn daughter with strangers, being unable to care for her himself.

'I realised that this man must be my father. I journeyed north to visit him, deciding not to speak of the jewel until I knew him well enough to trust him with the knowledge. He was frightened when he first saw me, thinking me the ghost of his dead wife – my mother. But when he knew me to be his daughter he was not much more welcoming. He had a new wife, and a three-year-old son – and his obsession with the Silmarils. One of his legs was completely paralysed and his health was dangerously fickle, preventing him from setting out himself in search of the jewels. I did not linger. I left Dale and spent the next six years moving from town to town, gradually learning the trade of glass-making and shaping. All the while I kept the jewel successfully hidden; fortune smiled on me in that regard at least. But I knew well from the tales and legends that luck fades, and that such things had a way of falling into bad hands.

'Then one day news reached me of a Harad asking questions about a jewel. I guessed at once that the priestesses had sent someone to find it and bring it back; guessing I had returned to the land my parents came from. It seemed that my time was running out. I resolved to hide the jewel; somewhere it would never be found.'

She paused, lost in memory. He watched her in silence, still caught under the spell of her story, and yet at the same time remembering the moment only a few days ago when they had come face to face in this room.

'I had heard of Mirkwood,' Astrid went on after a moment, 'the wild, sprawling forest that no one dared enter unarmed. I set out there alone, and walked several leagues into the forest. I encountered no one – not even an animal. I wondered sometimes if it was because of the jewel. It shielded me and kept me hidden, for better or for worse. At last I reached a clearing and buried the jewel there, deep, deep in the ground.'

She sighed. 'I returned home. A month or so passed. I received news that my father had died, obsessed till the last with seeking news of the lost Silmarils no one else believed in. His death left his son an orphan – the boy's mother had died several years previously. I went to Dale and there I met Nat for the first time. We were the last ones living in our family – and both of us longed for the companionship of family. Within a few weeks we were inseparable, and I stayed on in Dale, both mother and sister to him.

'Several years went by without trouble or disruption. But then I received news once again of a Harad asking questions. One night I came home to find a stranger there. It was Zaniyah, the first priestess whose vows I witnessed, after my own. She had searched my belongings and found a map on which I had marked the spot where the jewel was hidden – foolish of me, perhaps, if I never wanted it to be found, and yet I could not help myself. I managed to surprise her and subdued her with the tranquiliser I once used on you.' She smiled soberly. 'I liked to keep some ready at all times in case I ever needed it. I tied up Zaniyah, but could not bring myself to kill her, though that would have been safest.

'I knew she would sleep for several days, and hoped that would give me enough time to reach the jewel first. This time I would take it straight to the Lady Galadriel, famed for her wisdom and kindness, as I should have done the first time, when fear and awe prevented me from seeking her. Nat refused to let me travel alone, so I had no choice but to take him with me, though I refused to tell him what my mission was.' She grew reflective, sad. 'Not because I didn't trust him, but because I knew better than any how strong the lure of the jewel was, and I did not want him to fall under its spell too, as his – our – father had, along with so many others.

'We travelled swiftly to Mirkwood, and came to the crumbling bridge across the river – and the rest you know.' She smiled slightly.

He was remembering his shock when he had first recognised her, and smiled back.

'I do not think Zaniyah could have recovered the jewel, or Thranduil would surely have found it when he searched her belongings. Nor do I think she will willingly speak of it – but we cannot leave her silence to chance. We must set out at once and retrieve the jewel, while it yet remains hidden.' She hesitated. 'Above all, I cannot let Thranduil learn of its existence. His taste for treasure and gems is well-known and I fear what he would do were he to hear of it – for it is surely the greatest prize yet lingering in Middle-earth.'

They regarded each other in silence for a long while. At last he understood what had brought her here, what had changed her – and yet was reminded intensely of their brief time together in the Tombs. Never – not in the Tombs, nor yet in Mirkwood – had he seen her so fervent, so full of purpose. It felt as though he was seeing her more clearly than ever before.

He looked at her steadily. Inside he was clear-minded and purposeful. He would see her free herself of the jewel, as she had helped him in the Tombs. And Thranduil must not at any cost know of the jewel.

At last he spoke. 'I agree. The jewel can remain in Middle-earth no longer.'

* * *

First they went to the library and found a map of Mirkwood, which Astrid used to pinpoint the location of the jewel, having memorised it from many hours spent gazing at her own map – now lost to her after her tumble into the Enchanted River. Elrond needed only a moment to work out which route they must take, before they left, heading for the main doors. On the way, Elrond encountered one of the elves of Rivendell. He instructed her to tell Glorfindel to go to the clearing where the Feast had been held, in three hours' time, and to bring his horse.

They passed swiftly through the halls, but at the main gates they were stopped by the guard stationed there.

'I cannot allow this woman to leave. It would be to go against the orders of my king.'

Elrond spoke in a voice that brooked no argument. He was sterner and more authoritative than Astrid had ever seen him. 'This is a matter of the White Council. She goes with me.'

For a long moment the guard did not move. Then he stepped aside, his eyes never leaving Astrid.

Taking her arm, Elrond drew her through the opened doors. On the other side of the bridge were two horses, attended by a groom.

'I thought we might need to travel quickly,' Elrond said, a slight smile on his lips. 'A benefit of foresight, perhaps.'

Astrid hesitated, then spoke bluntly. 'I cannot ride.'

He paused. 'Then you can ride with me.'

He helped her up into the saddle then climbed up behind her. They rode swiftly into the darkness of the trees, along a path which wound deeper and deeper into the heart of the forest. After an hour of riding the path ended, and their progress went more slowly. Several long minutes passed, the trees crowding close around them, the shadows dark and heavy. Then all at once they emerged into an open space. It was almost more an avenue than a clearing. Regal, silent, forgotten, it made her think of the Halls of Mandos, where the spirits of Men and Elves gathered to await their fates. It felt as though the clearing were preserved by a spell; perhaps it had once been used for ceremonies. Autumn leaves lay all around them, gleaming golden where the sunlight broke through the thick canopy. She felt a feeling of calm and awe descend over her; it was little wonder she had chosen this place to hide the jewel in.

Elrond helped her dismount and she went straight to the oldest of the trees, reaching down between its roots and scraping away with her hands until at last she uncovered a small, plain-looking bag. She found she was trembling as she lifted it out of the hole, turning. Elrond came to her, his expression grave, his eyes moving from her face down to her cupped hands. A soft phrase escaped his lips, so quietly that she caught nothing but the murmur of another language. She looked at him, waiting, and at last he lifted his hands, holding them out to her.

She placed the bag into them. He gazed at it, sadness and wonder blending in his face, and she thought he might open it. But he did not, instead tucking it under his cloak. It was no longer hers, nor his, but would pass across the sea. It was over.

She could never have predicted the heavy mix of sadness and relief – and tentative joy that she felt. She had loved the jewel – but she had feared it too. Now she was free of it. She looked at Elrond; saw again the shadowed man he had been in the Tombs, saw his courage and strength in emerging from despair yet one more time after countless sufferings. He was gazing at her, trying to discern the tumult of emotions behind her eyes. She felt an impulse take hold of her just before she acted, and she did not resist.

Closing her eyes, she leaned forward and kissed him.

In the instant before she moved, he saw what she was going to do. Yet he did nothing to stop her. Her lips touched his, and he forgot to think, instead taking her face between his hands, holding her there as he returned the kiss. He felt her shiver between his fingers; instinctively his arms wrapped around her shoulders and back as he drew her closer.

A moment passed – and it was as though both came to their senses in the same instant. She pulled away as he let his arms drop from her, and stepped back.

'Forgive me,' he said, though it had been she who had acted first. He found it impossible to meet her eyes, and so he turned away, looking across the clearing at the tethered horse. 'We should return.'

They rode back in silence.


	12. The Parting

_A/N: From about halfway through the chapter there are some small movements back and forth in time between sections._

* * *

Chapter 12: The Parting

'Elrond!' Glorfindel strode towards them, his golden hair streaming past his shoulders, his face fearless and ready. A beautiful white horse stood nearby, his dark eyes alert and intelligent. The clearing was empty, all traces of the Feast and the celebrations cleared away.

In silence, Elrond helped Astrid dismount before turning to his friend. 'Glorfindel; thank you for coming. I did not summon you lightly. There is a matter of immense importance that I would entrust to you and no other.' Then he paused and looked at Astrid. It was the first time he had looked at her since they had left the clearing.

His gaze sought her permission. She nodded.

Glorfindel looked on gravely as Elrond reached into his cloak and drew out a small drawstring bag, then approached him. Astrid stood some distance away, watchful and silent. Solemnly, Elrond pressed the package into Glorfindel's hands.

'There is little time; all I can tell you at present is this. It contains a lesser Silmaril, the last of its kind still remaining in Middle-earth. I entrust it to you to take to the Grey Havens, and from thence to send it to Valinor.'

Glorfindel did not move for some time, silent with wonder. His eyes searched Elrond's, and Astrid felt that there was some deeper meaning behind Elrond's solemnity as he handed over the jewel – the same depth of feeling there had been when he had gazed at it after she had given it to him in the forest. Then he tucked the package under his cloak, bowing his head. 'Asfaloth will bear it with me. We will not tarry until it is out of our sight, safe in the care of our people as it is borne away across the Great Sea. We shall not fail you.'

Elrond's smile was warm. 'You have my deepest thanks, and my complete faith. When you return to Rivendell, there will be time for me to tell you what I cannot speak of now.'

'I will ride swiftly.' Embracing Elrond, Glorfindel went to his white horse, Asfaloth, and mounted. _'__N'i lû tôl.'_ Asfaloth sprang into motion, streaming across the clearing and vanishing into the trees.

'I could think of no swifter rider,' Elrond said quietly, his eyes fixed on the patch of darkness into which horse and rider had melted. 'Nor anyone I would trust more with such a task. I hope I have your approval.'

'Of course.'

'My lord Elrond.'

They both turned to see an elf standing nearby. He wore the armour of the Mirkwood guards. It did not escape their notice that his hand rested on his sword hilt.

'My king bids me tell you I am to escort the Woman of Dale to her chamber, which she may not leave until he so consents. He awaits you, Lord Elrond, in his throne room.'

Elrond's face grew grim. He gave Astrid a quick, unreadable look. Then he dropped his gaze. 'I cannot thwart his orders a second time. I will speak to him on your behalf.'

She kept her eyes lowered. 'I understand. Do not trouble yourself on my account. I will wait for word from you.'

* * *

Elrond stood before the Mirkwood King's throne. Outwardly he was calm and dispassionate as he waited for the king to speak.

Thranduil's eyes were cold, never leaving Elrond. Behind him stood Legolas, his face set with scorn and distrust.

'I gave orders that no one was to leave these Halls until I allowed it.' Thranduil spoke in Sindarin. Now he paused, his voice growing soft and deadly. 'You saw fit to flout my orders, Elrond Peredhil. Will you not tell me why?'

Elrond met his gaze unwaveringly. 'I cannot. It was a matter of the White Council. It is forbidden for me to speak of it.'

Thranduil's eyes narrowed, displeasure rising off him like a wave. 'So you say. Then why did you take the human into your counsel?'

Elrond did not answer at once. 'She was the one who alerted me to the matter.'

'So it was she who took you into her counsel.' Thranduil's voice grew softer with each word. He was no longer looking at Elrond, but gazing at the floor, his chin on his hand. 'Or perhaps you were in each other's counsel. Perhaps even before she came to Mirkwood.'

Silence drew out, stretching and expanding until it filled the vast space.

Thranduil spoke at last. 'Leave us.' He spoke to his son.

Legolas's brow darkened and he was about to protest, when he thought better of it and strode out of the hall, shutting the doors resoundingly behind him.

When the echo had at last faded, Thranduil lifted his head. 'I do not think you have been much pleased with your stay here,' he said quietly.

Elrond frowned but stayed silent.

'You came with such hopes of forging friendship between Lothlórien and Mirkwood, between Mirkwood and Dale. Yet my ill reception at every turn disappointed you. If I had done otherwise … I suspect you would still refuse to tell me any more of your business outside my palace, or your connection to "Astrid of Dale", as she calls herself.'

Elrond spoke openly: 'I take no pleasure in keeping this from you. This is your kingdom; it is your right to know what takes place within its borders. But this is one matter that cannot be spoken of. The White Council forbids it.'

Thranduil's gaze never moved from his face.

'I have two requests I would ask of you, if you will grant them,' Elrond said at last.

'Speak.'

'First: let Astrid of Dale go free. Her part in this is done. There is nothing you will learn from her, and nothing that her presence here can resolve.'

The king's reply was curt. 'I make no promises. And your second request?'

Elrond hesitated. 'Allow me to speak again with the Harad prisoner. This time she will speak to me, I am sure of it.'

Thranduil's eyes flashed. 'Then she, too, must be involved in these White Council matters.'

Elrond's expression did not flicker.

'And if I do allow this visit, how am I to be sure that you will report faithfully what she tells you? You alone are able to speak to her in her native tongue. But she is my prisoner, not yours, or the Council's.'

'That is true.' Elrond's voice was now troubled and regretful. He did not like to anger and incense Thranduil like this, or be forced to go behind his back. Nor did he like to hurt Thranduil by keeping secrets from him. No matter their differences of late, he respected Thranduil, as an individual and as a king. 'I cannot promise I will be able to tell you what is said. But I must repeat; it brings me no pleasure to keep secrets from you within your own Halls. And yet I must ask to be allowed to speak to her again.'

'Very well,' Thranduil said at last. 'Have one of my guards take you to her. When you have finished speaking, come back here at once, and report her confession.'

'_Le fael,' _Elrond said, inclining his head deeply.

Thranduil made no response.

With one last glance at the king, Elrond turned and walked quickly from the hall.

* * *

Nat had been full of questions when Astrid was escorted into their room, and ordered to remain there. When the guard had departed, she begged Nat to keep his questions for another time, and he had complied, clearly worried by her weariness and her distant manner.

Thranduil's order to imprison her here had not surprised her; he had warned her that he would not tolerate any attempt to leave his halls without his permission. And now that the jewel was safely gone, she no longer had any reason to desire immediate release. Without any pressing responsibility to fasten her mind on, her thoughts turned to Elrond, and the clearing, and all that had happened there.

She did not regret her actions; they had been pure instinct, a giving of herself; an expression of her hope and her longing, her love for his goodness.

He had returned the kiss – and she had known in that moment that her hopes had not been misplaced. All those times over the last few days when their eyes had met, or a certain silence had fallen between them, she had hardly dared to hope that he still felt their connection, the unique closeness forged between them in the Tombs, brought back to life after fifteen years apart, but remade anew; for neither of them was the same person they had been fifteen years ago. She had known that he felt it, just as keenly as she did.

But he had pulled away from her. When he had avoided her eyes after Glorfindel rode away, she had known he did not blame her. He blamed himself, and sought to hide himself from her, not wanting his guilt to hurt her. He regretted that brief moment when he had given into his feelings for her, and now could not look at her.

She saw all this whenever she looked at him; and so she could not look at him.

With a groan she forced herself to rise and began to pace the room to distract herself.

There was a knock at the door. 'It is Elrond.'

Astrid faltered. Gathering herself, and ignoring Nat's curious look, she went to the door and opened it.

Elrond stood in the doorway. He was solemn and grave, his eyes meeting hers guardedly. 'Things are not as we thought they were.'

Before she could react, a figure appeared beside him. Astrid's mouth fell open in astonishment. It was Zaniyah, the Harad priestess who had pursued her to Mirkwood. Her clothes were travelworn and dirty, but her eyes were fierce as they fixed on Astrid.

Astrid felt a shock go through her as she returned that dark, steady look. She remembered in a flash first standing by as Zaniyah made her priestess's oath, and then her dread and fear on returning home to find Zaniyah leaning over her paper-strewn desk, the map of the jewel's location pinned down with a knife, and finally the terrified scuffle for her blowpipe; ending in Zaniyah lying unconscious on the floor, her hands and feet bound, a dart sticking out of her shoulder.

Zaniyah stepped past Elrond. 'Tell me,' she commanded in Harad, her voice quick and impatient. 'Did the elf-lord speak truly when he said it is gone? Soon to go across the sea?'

It took a moment for Astrid to find her tongue. 'It is true.'

Zaniyah stepped closer, her dark eyes keen and unyielding. Astrid felt a frisson of fear. 'You swear it to me?'

'I swear it.'

Zaniyah seemed to sway, her eyes closing. 'The goddess be praised.'

Astrid stared. She felt sweat break out on her palms. Surely she had misheard –

'We were mistaken.' Elrond's eyes were lowered. He spoke in Harad. 'It was not her wish to take the jewel, but to destroy it.'

She gazed past him, trying to process this revelation.

He began to frown. He met her eyes; but with an effort. 'I cannot remain. There are things I must attend to. I will leave her – Zaniyah, with you, and let her tell you what she told me. Her explanation will have to be a hasty one; there is not much time. I will return shortly.' And he left, closing the door firmly behind him.

Zaniyah stood with a hand pressed to her brow. Her presence and energy no longer filled the room but had retreated back within the boundaries of her body. Her whole being emitted only a quiet, profound relief, a release from a burden which had been slowly consuming her.

* * *

'I see what you are going to ask.' Thranduil's eyes were cold as he regarded Elrond. 'You want me to release the Harad – the assassin responsible for the deaths of four of my scouts – my subjects.' His eyes flashed; his anger sudden and hot. 'What possible reason could you give me that would make me release her without punishment?'

Elrond met his gaze, respectful and grave. 'I understand your anger; and I am deeply grieved by their deaths. I wish they could have been averted.' He paused, and when he spoke his voice was grim. 'But they tried to prevent the Harad woman from completing a task in which she could not fail at any cost.'

'Of course. White Council business.'

Elrond did not look away. Stern and severe was his manner and bearing as he stood before the king; his voice firm and unyielding. 'Every action she took was with the purpose of preventing bloodshed which might well have led to war. A terrible war, in which your people would have been the first to suffer and die. That is all I can tell you. I am sorry for it, but you must believe me. She bears no malice against you or your people, but sought only to prevent a conflict which might have torn asunder the peace we have fought to preserve for so long and with such sacrifice.'

Thranduil was silent. 'And so you claim protection of her, along with Astrid of Dale, who has defied me at every turn, through her silence as well as her words and actions. No matter that she had your protection; she knew she was disobeying my explicit orders when she went outside my halls.' His voice grew strained, his gaze fervent with emotion. 'And still you will not give me any true explanation for your request that I let them both go free, despite their defiance and crimes towards myself and my people.' For a brief, painful moment, Elrond glimpsed the intensity of Thranduil's anger, bound up with ancient loneliness and grief. No matter what Elrond said, Thranduil could not but see Elrond's defence of the Harad as betrayal.

Elrond was quiet, his brow heavy, but he met the king's eyes steadily. 'I cannot.'

* * *

Astrid cleared her throat. It was time for introductions. 'Nat. This is Zaniyah, of Harad.'

'You mean where you were once a priestess.' Nat watched Zaniyah with awe and suspicion.

'That is right. And this is my brother, Nat,' Astrid turned to Zaniyah, hiding her unease as best as she could. 'My half-brother, I should say.'

Zaniyah nodded, not moving from her spot just inside the door. Her initial relief had faded somewhat, replaced by caution.

'You are safe here,' Astrid said gently.

The other woman did not respond. A long silence drew out.

'Will you not sit down?' Nat gestured to a chair, blushing.

Zaniyah stared, taken aback. Then her face broke into a smile. Even while sullen, she was striking; but smiling, she was beautiful.

She crossed the room and sat down hesitantly on the chair.

'There is so much I don't understand,' said Astrid, beginning to pace back and forth. 'I was so sure you wanted to take it back to Harad and hide it away in the darkness.' Then she stopped. 'Are you able to speak comfortably in the Westron tongue?' She hesitated. 'Nat does not know Harad.'

'I speak it well enough.' Zaniyah glanced at Nat. 'How much does your brother know?'

'He knows that I had to flee from you, as a matter of urgency, and that I sought the Lady Galadriel's advice - she rules Lothlórien, an elven realm. Nat knows nothing of the jewel.'

'What jewel?' Nat turned to Astrid accusingly.

'I am sorry I could not tell you before. Later I will answer all your questions. But for now, listen.'

Zaniyah began to speak slowly, deliberately. 'As you know I was not the first priestess to come looking for you. But we all came with the same intent. We were sure you had fallen under its spell and taken it only to possess it, thus risking setting that chain of possession and bloodshed – that we had kept at bay for so many centuries – into motion all over again. Only a year after you fled with the jewel Ikara – our head priestess – became very ill. She had been losing grip on her sanity for many months, and one night she went running down the stairs into the tombs to seek out the jewel – and fell. The fall paralysed her, and left her drifting in and out of consciousness. She lingered for several days, then died.'

Astrid shivered. She would never forget the look of triumph in Ikara's eyes when she had been told that Amtar's prisoner was dead. Pushing aside that memory, Astrid could not help reflecting how much Zaniyah had changed since she had last known her fifteen years ago. Then she had been ever-watchful, near-silent. Now she retained her cautiousness, but her speech flowed richly and pleasantly, despite the occasional search for the right word in the Westron tongue.

'With Ikara's death, it was as though a spell was broken. Many of the priestesses had long grown uncomfortable with the burden of keeping the jewel safe – and now they had failed in that task. It became clear that the only way to keep it from ever causing wars again, was to find it and destroy it.'

'If you wanted to destroy it, why were you satisfied with Elrond's – the elf-lord's,' Astrid amended, aware of Nat regarding her with his interested look, 'plan to send it across the sea?'

'I trusted him. Besides,' Zaniyah said, frowning, 'I was not as sure as some of the other priestesses that such a thing _could _be destroyed.'

Nat opened his mouth; then quickly shut it, with great effort.

Astrid closed her eyes for a moment. Zaniyah spoke of Elrond as though this was not the first time she had met him. She forced her mind back to those days in the darkness of the tombs, fifteen years ago. Had she not felt, sometimes, that someone was watching?

'It was you! You followed me to his cell, and looked at us through the spyhole. It was you.'

Zaniyah looked at her with her dark, unreadable gaze.

'Yet you never told anyone that he was alive,' Astrid went on, wonderingly. 'That I kept him alive after he saw the jewel, when such disobedience was punishable by death.'

Nat was now almost hopping from foot to foot with curiosity. Astrid stilled him with a look.

'Yes, I kept silent. I listened while he spoke to you of places neither of us would ever see, and I understood why you kept him alive. I never spoke of him after you let him go.' She paused. 'He never saw me, or knew I was there. He has no idea that I know of his connection to the jewel.'

No one spoke for a while. Then Astrid asked at last, 'Will you return there? To the priestesses? What is their purpose, now that the jewel is gone?'

Zaniyah gazed into her lap, her eyes far away. 'They care for the sick and the desperate. They raise the children whose parents are too poor to keep them. There is purpose enough; _more_ purpose, now that their lives are not directed downwards, into the earth, protecting a thing which could give nothing back to them but its light and its bloody legacy.'

'And its beauty,' Astrid said softly.

'Yes,' Zaniyah agreed.

'Then will you return there?'

'I do not know.' She smiled, briefly. 'I have not yet recovered my strength from chasing you. While I thought the jewel lost, I had energy enough – it spurred me on to do something with a terrible consequence.' Her face closed, a veil falling across her eyes. Astrid saw there was something she was hiding, but did not press her. 'But now that the jewel is gone I find I am weary. And Harad lies many leagues away. Besides, I do not think the elf-king will let me go so easily.' The veil returned.

For a while no one spoke. Astrid glanced quickly at Nat, who nodded. She looked at Zaniyah. 'Come with us to Dale. See how you find it there.'

Zaniyah looked up.

'If you find you like it, it will be your home.'

'It will be winter soon,' said Nat shyly. 'There'll be snow.'

* * *

Thranduil's eyes did not leave Elrond's, hard and cold. Then at last he looked away, his face closing.

'It is over. Tell the woman – Astrid of Dale, that she and her brother may leave. The sooner the better. Warn her never to set foot in my kingdom again.' Thranduil rose fluidly, his robes pooling as he stepped down from the dais. 'You will get your wish; the Harad assassin will go free, as well. She is banished forthwith from my kingdom, under pain of death. But I warn you, Elrond Peredhil, if your stay were not due to end so soon, I would banish you, too.'

With those words he swept from the room, his back straight and imperious, and yet it seemed to Elrond that those stiff shoulders bore the weight of too many burdens.

* * *

A messenger came with Zaniyah's belongings, and the news that Astrid and Nat were to leave at once, taking Zaniyah with them – she was banished on pain of death. She took the news without a flicker of emotion. The messenger then informed them that Astrid and her brother were also banished hitherto from Mirkwood, never to return. This news did not trouble Astrid at all; she heartily welcomed it. But poor Nat looked crestfallen. She quickly thrust his pack into his arms. 'Get packing.'

The messenger still lingered in the doorway. 'Yes?' Astrid asked.

'I have a message from the King intended for you personally.'

Astrid felt her skin chill. 'What is it?'

'He said only this: "Remember my words." He said you would know what he meant.' With a grave look, the messenger left.

She knew well the words he meant.

_'You are out of your depths, mortal. Your life is as fleeting and meaningless as a mayfly's is to a dragon. I almost pity you.'_

'Astrid?' asked Nat. 'What is wrong?'

She shook herself. 'Nothing.'

Her own pack had been returned yesterday, after having been searched by Thranduil's guard. She set about bundling their few possessions into it.

She was glad to leave, she told herself. It was true; she could hardly wait until she was free of the lofty palace and the claustrophobic forest. And yet a part of her, undeniable and pervasive, felt more desolate than she had since leaving the Tombs.

There was a knock at the door. Nat ran to open it.

It was Elrond. His eyes found Astrid's at once, before lowering. She felt her throat close. She looked away quickly.

'Come, Nat,' said a rich, female voice. Astrid looked up to see Zaniyah press Nat's pack into his arms and shoo him from the room, pausing to look at Elrond, and meet the half-frowning look he gave her in return. Nat managed to give Elrond one curious, awed look before he was bundled out by Zaniyah, who shut the door firmly behind them.

They were alone. Astrid longed to call Nat back inside, but was too proud to do so. Elrond was looking at her with a frown; she turned away, rolling spare clothes into a bundle.

He spoke quietly. 'I am sorry it came to this. I fear your stay in Mirkwood has not been a pleasant one.'

'It was certainly an unplanned one,' she managed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his eyes soften slightly, and she bent her head with a frown.

'Will you return to Dale?'

'Yes.' Her voice sounded like someone else's. 'I have offered Zaniyah a home with me while she recovers from her journey.'

He spoke cautiously. 'Elrohir and Elladan will be sorry to have missed you and your brother.'

There was a knock on the door. A voice called: 'Make haste! The king will not allow you to linger.'

Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, then she looked away, pained. She feared he might say he was sorry again, but he didn't.

By now everything was packed. 'I had better go,' she said flatly, 'before I am marched out.'

Now that time was running out a new intensity seemed to take hold of him. He stepped closer. 'I have arranged an escort for you and your brother, and Zaniyah. They will take you as far as the borders of Mirkwood. From there you should be safe.'

She avoided his eyes. 'Thank you.'

His voice was low and earnest. 'In a week's time, perhaps sooner, I will be returning to Rivendell. Glorfindel will meet me there. As soon as I have news I will send you word.'

'Thank you,' she said again.

He was quiet; his silence was like a reproach. She could feel his eyes on her. When she glanced at him she saw his frown; the hesitant pain in his gaze. It was her formality which hurt him, her distance. With a pang she recalled his eyes as he had looked at her as they had stood outside the Tombs, fifteen years ago. She would never forget that look. In that moment nothing had been hidden between them. He had looked at her with such vivid compassion and openness, ready to help her at any cost to himself, offering her an escape, a new life.

Her chest felt tight; each breath hurt.

She forced her voice to remain steady as she looked into his eyes, knowing she would not see him again. _'Savo 'lass a lalaith.'_

Then, before he could recover from his shock at her knowledge of Sindarin, she shouldered her pack, let herself out and was gone.

* * *

_A/N: _N'i lû tôl _means 'Until then', or 'When the time will come'._

Le fael _is a reverential way of saying 'Thank you', translating literally as 'You are generous'._

Savo 'lass a lalaith_ means 'Have joy and laughter'._


End file.
